


World on Fire

by ElocinMuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, F/M, Gen, Megstiel - Freeform, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 185,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElocinMuse/pseuds/ElocinMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world changed when the angels fell. They descended in fire, wings eaten up by flame, mass confusion and unfathomable pain surrounding them in a chaotic shroud as they plummeted. But something eminently worse rose with the sun that morning. Humanity stood by in fear, in awe, rushing to put a name to what was happening. "The end!" they cried. </p>
<p>Season9/2014!Endverse AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exordium

**Author's Note:**

> This will contain heavy focus on the relationship between Castiel and Meg, though the other main characters will be prevalent as well. There really isn't much else I can say to prepare you for it without giving huge plot points away. There will also be artwork and a soundtrack provided on my tumblr (same username as here).

**EXORDIUM**

_world on fire with a smoking sun_  
 _stops everything and everyone_  
 _you know there’s something_  
 _coming down from the sky above_

* * *

In the year 2013, the world changed.

Two things of note happened. On May 15th, a great lesion was torn into the tenuous fabric of the cosmos. The sky opened up, and a vast and yawning chasm spilled Heaven down upon the earth in a brutal display. Angels were falling—cast out of their home and into the foreign world far below. They descended in fire, wings eaten up by flame, mass confusion and unfathomable pain surrounding them in a chaotic shroud as they plummeted. The earth quaked and shuddered under the assault of what transpired. The oceans, they _churned_. Mountains groaned from their vigils, despairing. The winds howled and cried, mourning the great loss. One by one, in tandem, the stars fell out of the sky in great burning trails that knifed through the clouds.

Falling, as Lucifer did.

Humanity stood by in fear, in awe, rushing to put a name to what was happening. _The end!_ they cried. Heaven had fallen, and so many were convinced the sun wouldn’t rise that morning, that it was over and all was lost.

But the sun did rise. And, with it, something eminently worse. For it wasn’t many months after the angels were cast out that a Knight, fresh from the ashes, rose up in a tyrannical stunt of power. No one would forget the day when Abaddon announced her name, her arrival, to the already mortified populace of earth. She stood amid a mass slaughter—demon, human, and angel alike—blood painted over her face as one did before war. After her overthrow of Hell, she promised Creation would be conquered next.

As Abaddon’s empire rose, she cast fresh horrors on the Earth, throwing it into destitution and havoc, but nothing was so devastating as the plague she brought forth. It was a sickness that spread faster than Man could document, faster than could be defended against. It left Earth awash in ruin, in death.

A plague known only as: Croatoan.

The year is 2014.

* * *

  _I'll return from darkness and will save your precious skin_  
 _I will end your suffering and let the healing light come in_  
 _I will cover you when the sky comes crashing in_  
 _sent by forces beyond salvation_  
 _brace yourself for all will pay_  
 _help is on the way_


	2. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were no seasons anymore. Just the constant oppressive temperature of a Hell gone topside, leaving most of the earth arid and wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will mostly keep each chapter within a set timeframe, save a few flashbacks, but be certain to pay particular attention to the "historian's note" that goes along with each new chapter, as it'll help you out in putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Example: "18 Months After the Fall."

**THE END**

_the whole world's sitting on a ticking bomb_   
_the sea will boil and the sky will fall_   
_the sun may never rise again_

* * *

18 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Time hadn’t felt short at all.

“Hey, Garth.”

The other sentry acknowledged his fellow crew member. “Kevin. Thought they relieved you?”

Around them, perimeter checks and safety sweeps circulated. There was a fire somewhere needing to be put out, fences to rebuild. It was just after midnight, the dark sky rendered opaque with mist and humidity. The moon struggled to appear through the cloudbanks, while the occasional searchlight forced the abandoned district beyond the fence into muggy, dispassionate illumination.

Kevin’s eyes were darker, wilder than they’d been when Dean and Sam had found him years ago. He had shadows gathered under them, a testament to the sleepless nights and twisted dreams. His face was older, his shoulders wider. The dark hair that hung in his eyes was nearly back to its original length, and his jaw was covered in scruff that was too long to be called stubble anymore. Kevin shrugged. “Nah, Charlie was sick. I took her shift.”

“Nice of you.”

Kevin again shrugged, hefting his weapon tighter against his chest. “You gonna be around tomorrow night?”

The lanky hunter looked out past the chain-linked sanctuary of Camp Chitaqua, shaking his head, then slid his gaze up towards the waxing gibbous moon, nearly full. The shadows of his angular face became heavy, his mouth thinning into a tight line.

“Negative, amigo.”

Tomorrow night he’d already be far from the camp, accustomed to the cold kiss of manacles and damp musty cellars. The moon seemed to smile back at him, fond in an almost cruel way of its lupin servant.

Kevin took understanding from the hooded look, shifting uncomfortably.

“Did they find any today?” Garth prompted instead, looking haunted, eager to change the subject.

“Don’t think so. Sounded like another dead end. Just more bandits and Croats.” Kevin shook his head. They’d lost three men, he’d heard. “Shit.”

Garth regarded him with narrowed eyes and an admonishing tone. “You shouldn’t swear.”

Kevin sighed, kicking idly at the chain-link fence. “Whatever.”

“Any luck on finding your mom?” Garth tried instead.

Kevin said nothing, a muscle flexing in his jaw. He shivered, but Garth didn’t think it had anything to do with the evening chill.

Dutifully, he turned back to his post. “Sorry I asked.”

Beyond the borders, there was a distant scream, swallowed by the night.

* * *

_the silent war has begun_   
_we're staring down a loaded gun_   
_no refuge found on solid ground_   
_this human race can’t be won_

* * *

EARLIER THAT DAY

There were no seasons anymore. Just the constant oppressive temperature of a Hell gone topside, leaving most of the earth arid and wild.

City blocks now looked like rows of open penitentiaries, or—worse—had fallen into complete ruin. The midday sun sat high in the sky, beating down with a sweltering heat. No clouds today, just a vast wasteland of empty sky, stretching on for miles. The streets set out before them were barren, tufts of grass and weeds sprouting from crevices in the pavement. Biohazard sheets still hung from some of the buildings in a dilapidated spectacle, vines and foliage twisting up the edifices of apartment complexes and fortification walls. The hospitals were demolished entirely.

The maze of downtown lay ahead, welcoming them in crude, treacherous invitation. Overhanging tarps fluttered idly in the wind as they were suspended from rows of scaffolding; a convenient lookout.

“This is Rifle One, go for ground.”

Dean had more frown lines, more darkness in him.

“ _Place looks deserted_ ,” replied the mechanical voice from the walkie he held in his hands. Far ahead, he could see Yeager and Irv with the rest of the reconnaissance crew.

“This whole town is a fucking killbox,” grated Dean. He regarded what lay ahead with heavy suspicion, distrust and vigilance swimming in his eyes like tar. He knew what waited beyond the borderlands.

This was looter territory.

They were sitting dead center on a notorious raider highway in the middle of an open quarantine zone, wading through shit creek and without the shoes for it. Things would go real south real fast if they weren’t careful. Of all the damn places for a group of Fallen to be holed up…

_To hell with the halo squad._

On top of that lost and utter waste of a cause, Sam wanted to search for survivors and the crew needed supplies. Dean was just looking to stick his knife into something.

“Where the hell are they?” he growled under his breath, impatience shortening his tone. They’d been chasing rumors of a First Blade for over a month besides, with nothing to show for it. It left the camp leader more pissy and volatile than usual, and everyone was giving him a wide berth.

Beside him, Sam muttered, “Relax, Dean. They were a state over when they radioed.”

Taking in the sight ahead, Sam scratched absently at the patch of cloth over his right eye, a token from one of Abaddon’s lieutenants. Unfortunately, the injury occurred after that piece of shit Gadreel had been expelled. And it wasn’t like they had another angel on deck willing or able to zap Sam a new eye. The few they had at the camp were so damaged from the Fall that they could barely keep themselves together.

So many thought it would slow him down, the loss. That it would set him a step back.

It didn’t. He was a Winchester. Which meant he killed the demon, tore away the sleeve of his shirt to wrap around his face to stop the bleeding, and finished the job before heading back to camp.

Dean still had both his eyes, but all he could see with them was revenge. Abaddon’s charred remains crunching beneath his boots. Every demon, every monster, dead. All he saw was the _red red red_ of blood, and no consequence or care as to how it was spilled. The instant Croatoan hit, the world was just another lost cause anyways—what was there left to fight for if not a reckoning?

Sam disagreed. Somewhere down the line, their roles had been reversed. He was ready to keep fighting.

The walkie he held crackled to life. “ _Right behind you, Bullwinkle_.”

Sam spoke into Dean’s walkie then, to their men below. “This is Rifle Two. Fire and Ice are inbound. We’re going in.” He glanced to his right. “Risa, keep a lookout from here.”

Risa nodded, settling herself on her stomach, tucking the Barrett M82 tight into her shoulder. “Got you covered.”

Exchanging silent looks, the brothers dropped from the scaffolding. As one, they forged ahead.

They reached the rest of the crew just after passing the remains of a grounded helicopter, aged with oxidation and flaking paint. Here, they entered the labyrinth of abandoned vehicles strewn chaotically, telling the story of a mad dash for escape. Shattered bricks and split concrete made up most of the pathway they took, just off street. The street itself was too open—not enough cover. Slanted signs loomed above them, crumbling edifices to their right. Stoplights hung uselessly from their posts.

_Now Playing: Route 666_ , announced the broken down theater.

Weapons slung over their shoulders, a chill at their backs, the men turned away from the sight.

“Hold up,” Dean said suddenly, raising a hand.

Obediently, the men stilled. Everyone fell on high alert, eyeing their leader hawkishly, awaiting orders. Dean scowled ahead, listening, feeling out the tight buzz that had settled just seconds ago in his gut. He scanned their surroundings slowly, methodically, grip tightening over his assault weapon. Beside him, Sam had adopted the same stance. His brother’s sense of hearing was better now even than his, a compensation for the visual impairment.

“We’ve got trouble,” the younger Winchester forewarned, his tone low and grave.

“Shit,” Dean muttered, seeing the body of a man slip behind cover on a faraway outcrop. “Weapons up!”

A second later, a shot broke the quiet in half and Irv dropped dead to the ground.

After that, the deserted town became a warzone. Gunfire shattered the afternoon as more ambushers appeared from their stations. Dean and Sam both began shouting orders as the crew took cover and began delivering return fire.

The enemy sniper took aim on another, finger just barely squeezing over the trigger when he took a devastating shot to the temple, immediately dead. Back at the scaffolding, Risa slammed the bolt on her rifle back and forward, reloading another bullet into the chamber for the next raider unfortunate enough to fall into her sights.

Dean broke out the window of the Corolla they were wedged behind, utilizing the additional cover of the metal frame as he shoved the barrel of his M4A1 through and bared down on the trigger. Sam and Yeager were on either side of him, while the rest of their dozen or so man team was spread out behind whatever cover they could find.

Yeager was out of ammo in his own M4 within moments, a fool’s move because the poor bastard couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if he was standing inside it, so he had nothing to show for the spent ammo besides. Dean swore impressively, throwing his extra sidearm at the man. He knew Yeager was a crack shot with a pistol, at least.

Sure enough, raiders began dropping under the shots from the old Browning in seconds.

Sam had already silenced three men with his M16 and another with his sidearm when the man tried to skirt around the pile of vehicles to flank them. Momentum sent the dead ambusher skidding through the dirt towards them. Sam kicked the body away and unloaded more cover fire for Mathew, who was making his way around the maze.

Though he still had plenty of ammunition left over in his AR, Dean quickly slung it back over his shoulder for safe keeping. There were worse things than bandits outside the camp’s walls, after all. He pulled his pearl-handled Taurus from a holster at his thigh and started putting it to use.

Sam let out a string of curses when his weapon suddenly jammed. They needed more reliable gear, for fuck’s sake. Scavenging was proving to be more hazardous than it was worth.

“Sammy, get that shooter to do its damn job!”

“I’m trying, Dean!” Sam shouted back. He fought in vain with the failing weapon, angry frustration welling like boiling water. “ _Goddamnit_.” He barely had time to register the unfriendly sight of an ambusher pounding towards him, weapon drawn, before the man was lurching back with an arrow lodged in his heart.

_‘_ _Bout time_ , thought Sam blackly with satisfaction, equally irritated and grateful.

Two more ambushers died screaming as arrows found their mark. High at their backs, Castiel vaulted the roof’s ledge he was standing on and dropped down to the fire escape below. He held a tactical recurve bow in his hand and wore his usual stern frown, taking the metal stairs two at a time. Bullets quickly started notching into the brick and metal around him as he drew the attention of the ambushers. The grating jarred loudly under the stress as he made a running leap across, landing on a lower escape. In no time he reached the final level, dropping down and gripping the rungs of the escape tight, the ladder going into a fast slide under his weight. Castiel dropped, boots hitting the ground, already on the move.

Using the distraction, Dean took off from around the car, tearing across the broken street and swallowing ground faster than the ambusher ahead of him could react. Dean had the demon knife slamming up into the man’s chest within seconds, then punched and grappled his way through a small group trying to reload. Luck was provisionally on their side due to the fact that only a third of the ambush party appeared to have functioning weapons.

Sam took out two men with double taps to the chest, his M16 forgotten in the dirt and replaced with the Smith & Wesson in his hands. Shooting anything that didn’t spray the enemy with a hail of bullets was easier said than done these days, and he’d had to relearn everything he once did as easily as drawing breath. Another man behind him flew back under the skill of Risa's sharpshooting, clearing the immediate area for him.

Castiel fired three more arrows home, keen eyes leading the third as he ran. The ambusher was choking on his own blood in moments mid-run, an arrow in his throat as he tripped and collided hard with the ground. Behind the fallen angel, another looter tore around the corner but barely had time to draw a bead before he too was left choking.

“Don’t think so, kitten,” Meg’s smoky voice purred in his ear before she drew her knife back out of his neck. His body didn’t even have time to hit the ground before she was tearing after Castiel, hot on his heels.

For no longer being invincible, Castiel quickly became known for his penchant towards recklessness. He threw himself headlong into forays, charging enemies and barreling straight into the nebulous of battle.

Admittedly, Meg stressed. He was human now, and humans didn’t last long in their world. Especially Castiel—he died more times than she cared to keep track of. She often referred to him as the Kenny of angels, which he’d never found to be funny. Neither did she, not really, but her sense of humor was always a little twisted.

But no. Castiel was a warrior before anything else. Before grace, before servitude, before guardian. And _damn_ was he a thing to look at when he got violent.

Mid-run, someone caught him around the back of his jacket, trying to haul him back into a fight. Castiel spun and lashed out, first knocking away the offending hand and then sending a brutal blow to the man’s nose. To finish it, he swung his bow around by the grip in a devastating arc, nearly beheading the ambusher. Castiel pivoted sharply, drawing another arrow from the quiver at his back and firing it through the eye socket of the man rushing him with a scatter gun.

He crossed over the body and bounded nimbly up a taxi trunk and straight onto the roof, careless of being exposed, taking aim with his bow over the maze of autos. He had modified the weapon himself—both upper and lower limbs had titanium blades bonded to them, and the bloodied metal gleamed under the hot sun. Meg was beside him in an instant, her back colliding with his as she started unloading cover fire with her Beretta.

“You and your big entrances,” she muttered.

Castiel spared her a brief glance. “I had stealth in mind, not flair.”

Meg’s smile was lazy and knowing. “Uh huh.”

As the demon and the fallen angel drew most of the fire, the rest of the crew was able to secure an angle on their ambushers. The forty-man gang of looters began to dwindle as skill rapidly overtook numbers. Not one of them was as strong as all of them. Together, they were nothing short of unstoppable.

Dean ducked beneath an arcing blade, backtracking around the man wielding it to snap his neck. He punched another once, twice, in the throat and finished him with a shot between the eyes. Sam appeared at his side, his massive height a shield and constant companion as together they crushed whatever opposed them.

“Trying to flank,” was all Castiel said before he stepped off the roof of the taxi onto the windshield, the glass spiderwebbing loudly under his boot as he leapt off in pursuit.

“I’ve got you,” came Meg’s unnecessary reply. He knew she did.

Around them, gunfire assaulted their ears and bullets screamed past. Castiel saw the maneuver the ambushers were pulling, intending to put an end to it. Meg tore after him, sprinting around two jeeps and a city bus, stabbing and shooting. She was lissome as a wraith—as graceful a beast as he’d ever seen. He admired her in battle possibly even more than when she was lying beside him, tangled in sheets.

Jumping over a fallen lamppost, Meg utilized her footing to spring herself onto the box of a semi. She gripped the roof rail with one hand, drawing herself up with facile skill and strength.

“Three on your left!” she shouted after him.

Under fire, Castiel skidded hard through gravel and slid behind a nearby car, bullets ricocheting around him as he shielded his face.

One charged forward, bowie drawn. Castiel heard the pounding footsteps and reacted. His hands closed over the wrist that tried to drive the knife into his heart, stopping the point of the blade a foot or so away from his chest. He twisted hard, hearing bone snap, then kicked out. The heel of his boot connected with a knee and when the subsequent scream predictably followed, Castiel tossed the man aside into the spray of bullets. One of the men still firing at him went down with a shot to the chest from somewhere, and the second suddenly had an eyeline full of angry demon.

Meg unleashed a quick series of harsh jabs, a gunshot going wild when she knocked the man’s sidearm away. He used his height and bulk to his advantage, bearing down on her with brute strength. His meaty fist struck hard against her face, stealing her blood and marking her. Meg spun and weaved, cutting with her knife, and then the man doubled over, seemingly without cause, grunting in pain. Meg had her fingers curled into a partways fist, digging mental claws into the human male. She wore a snarl and her eyes were an oily black. “You shouldn’t hit girls.”

Meg was strong. Stronger than ten men. She liked to show it off whenever she could.

She gave another twist of power and kicked the man aside. Castiel saw the exchange and shot to his feet, sending an arrow flying past her into the shoulder of the ambusher coming up behind her. Meg finished him with a backwards arc of the wrist, burying her knife in his chest. Castiel was back at her side in moments, shouldering and fighting his way through bodies. Twice he swung his bow, slicing deadly arcs and cutting through flesh and bone. Meg’s black stare snapped back to the man she’d left coughing up blood on ground, seeing the .38 in his hands. Acting on instinct, she lashed out, fingers closing around Castiel’s jacket and yanking him back, out of the way, so that the two bullets _pak-pak_ _’_ _d!_ into her chest. She growled under her breath—she liked that shirt—and emptied the remainder of her clip into the shooter.

“Out of ammo, Grumpy,” said Meg, heedless of the din surrounding them. “Mind if I borrow this?”

Tossing a charming smile his way and without waiting for an answer, Meg’s fingers closed around the handle of his angel blade, holstered at his thigh, and pulled it free.

“Help yourself.”

Armed with her own knife and his blade, Meg began cutting herself a bloody path.

Sam threw a man from his back as though he were a toy, whirling and punching out another that tried to advance on him. The man in the dirt he shot once, but the other he never got the chance to. A large length of wood sailed through the air, wielded like a bat, smashing against Sam’s shoulder and sending the spray of kindling everywhere. Sam grunted and stumbled, but remained otherwise undeterred, much to the dismay of the man holding what was left of the wood. Sam grabbed him around the throat, pushing him back into an old sedan so hard the window cracked. The younger Winchester drew back and punched the looter’s face back into the glass so that it shattered completely.

Dean had already finished his kills, standing over the bodies with a scowl and surveying what threats remained. Yeager and his team had another straggler or two to handle, and Risa silenced yet another who was attempting to make a getaway.

“Meg!”

The demon craned her neck, dark curls whipping across her face. Castiel was becoming surrounded. Meg finished the raider she was scuffling with, then tossed the angel blade back towards its owner. Castiel caught it and whirled, stabbing one attacker between the ribs, then pivoted back, flipped the blade in his hand and threw it. The holy steel embedded in the last ambusher’s sternum.

God, he was fast. Even for having no power.

Meg barely even had time to express her approval before she was registering pain and a powerful force knocked her into the dirt, hard.

She cried out at the feel of her side being rent open, at the burn of the salt, rolling over to see a man with a shorty aimed at her. A shadow swept over her then, and she recognized Castiel’s towering form as he inserted himself between the barrel of the gun and her. His hand automatically went to the quiver at his back, realizing belatedly then that there was nothing there when his fingers met only with empty air.

A gritty smile spread on the face of the man holding the gun, his posture relaxing. “Looks like you’re out of arrows, Hawkeye.”

Castiel pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster and shot the man, watching impassively as the body slunk to the ground.

Sometimes he wondered at the stupidity of people.

He scanned the area carefully as he turned, offering a hand to Meg. The question hung in his eyes as to whether or not she was alright. Meg grunted as she reached up, hissing through her teeth when he hauled her gently to her feet. “I’m fine,” she muttered, glaring at the double barreled shotgun with disdain. “What the hell.”

“Salt rounds?” Castiel ventured, pressing his gloved hand against the wound in concern.

Meg shook her head. “One of each. Different shell in each barrel. Bastards were prepared.”

Castiel wore a pensive frown, looking briefly at the weapon as though he wished he could do it harm. Relenting that, he scanned the area somewhat anxiously. “We should work quickly.”

“Your wish, featherpants,” Meg replied at length, checking over the bodies for anything they could use.

Dean cast a bleak look back at the bodies of their men. Yeager and Arthur were bowed over them, considering what to do. “Fuckin’ great.”

Irv and Mathew, both dead.

“Shit,” said Sam around a sigh, running a hand over his face.

“Well, Sam? Any survivors? Anybody to save? Maybe we’ll find a puppy on the way back to camp so you can fill your good deed quota.”

Sam bristled at his brother’s tone. “Dean.”

“This was a waste of fucking time.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Sam muttered reproachfully. He knew his brother was not mad at him, _knew_ the object of his anger. It would lead them nowhere good.

“They’re gonna get us all _killed_ ,” Dean shot heatedly back. “How many men have we lost over this angel shit?”

“It matters, Dean.”

“Only thing that matters is putting that demon bitch in the ground.”

* * *

_I’m just a freedom fighter, no remorse_   
_raging on in holy war_   
_soon there will come a day_   
_when you’re face to face with me_

* * *

Castiel had begun the menial task of recollecting his arrows when Dean appeared at his side, looking impatient and pissed.

“Well?” he prompted. “Where’re your frat brothers?”

Castiel was no stranger to Dean’s attitude towards his mission, and already he was weary with where this was going. “I’m not omniscient. I just know they were in this town.”

Dean rolled his eyes as Castiel began searching the area. His friend still heard angel radio, an ability they often used to track down and locate members of the Fallen tribe. Many of them they offered sanctuary, a place in the world, while the more violent ones were dealt with in other ways. “I just lost two men for this shit, man. Either they’re here, or they’re not.”

Castiel’s eyes met his sharply, glacier cold. “I’ll find them, Dean.”

Dean bristled at the abrasive tone, but eventually chose to ignore it. Smirking, he advised, “Well, take teacup demon with you. I think she has cockroach DNA. She seems to survive everything. Maybe you could use her as a shield.”

Meg cheerfully flipped him off.

Sam sighed with the grace of an exasperated mother. “Be careful,” he offered to both Meg and Castiel. They’d already lost enough today.

Meg grabbed the front of Castiel’s shirt and towed him after her. “Move it, Clarence. Sooner we get out of this damn sun, the better.”

The sight was still an oddity—the tiny demon and the lumbering fallen angel, walking side by side. Sam glanced at his brother, at the surly, standoffish squaredness of his shoulders. He knew Dean hated Meg; _everyone_ knew how Dean Winchester felt about the demon in the camp. Many shared his viewpoint, though rarely said so. Even powerless, a lot of the men were still afraid of Castiel.

Once upon a time, Sam had hated Meg too. She’d been responsible for so much upheaval, so much _loss_ , in their lives. But then he’d been there in Meg’s final moments. Heard the things that she told him. Knew how much she was sacrificing, and that she was willing to die for one of them.

Sam was there when Meg gave her life for Castiel.

He saw, and understood.

Sam would never forget the things she’d said to him, how she confided in him. Did that make him an idiot? Maybe. Dean would never get it like he did. Dean would go on hating Meg for the things she did in her past, Meg would go on hating Dean just for the hell of it, and Sam and Castiel would be caught somewhere in the middle.

_Just like always_ , thought Sam grimly as he followed after his brother.

* * *

_I am still here waiting_   
_I’m anticipating_   
_while they are orchestrating_   
_to grant the wish that I am making_

* * *

_The bow became almost as beloved as she was. It became an extension of him._

_He had struggled with the weight at first._

_“_ _Turn down the poundage,"_ _she'_ _d suggested._

_“I shouldn't have to.”_

_"Well, tough shit, handsome. You get to earn your strength like everyone else now."_

_"_ _My strength was earned over_ millennia _. I have existed since before this earth was formed from the abyss_ _—_ _before you were even a thought. It_ _’_ _s easy for you to say this when you still have your power._ _”_

_“You still talking?"_

_Sometimes he really hated her. But then she'_ _d smile at him like that, and he'_ _d be undone again._

_“_ _Angel with a bow is a little on the nose, don'_ _t you think?"_ _she would tease him._

_He lifted an eyebrow at her, clearly not understanding._

_“_ _Cupid?_ _”_ _Meg pointed out, as though his cluelessness was devastating to her. She_ _sighed at his lack of reaction._

_Castiel pushed himself, pushed his limits, in learning the weapon._

_“Why is this so important to you?" she would ask him over time, more seriously. She did want to know._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m human, Meg. No longer an angel._ _”_ _He could practically see the sarcasm in her thoughts._ No, really? _"_ _I don_ _’_ _t have my powers to protect me._ _”_ To protect you _, he added silently._ _“_ _I need to expand my skill set._ _”_

_“Is that all it is?"_

_"What else would it be?"_

_The bow was patience, it was dedication. It demanded focus, and a sort of peace that was often lost to him these days. It was quick and silent and deadly. It was precise, graceful, unpredictable and yet limitless in so many ways. Like he had been. Certain steps had to be followed and mastered. Stance was the foundation, where strength was drawn from. Mindset was paramount--one had to focus solely on the goal, regardless of surroundings. It was deep inhales and nonstop preparations. Anchor and hold. Aim. All that existed was the wielder and their target. Release and follow through. Again and again, responsibility taken for every outcome, for every shot. The bow belonged to him, and he to it. It gave him a glimpse into something he would never have back, that was stolen from him, and yet it gave him a distraction, an attainable focal point for his errant thoughts. It was exactly the weapon he needed. The companion, when he and Meg were at odds, when he needed help that even she couldn't provide._

_It gave him power, where his own was now a memory._

_The targets for him changed frequently in his mind._

_Crowley._

_Gadreel._

_Metatron._

_Abaddon._

_Himself._

* * *

_no price too great, no distance too far_   
_if I can wish upon a black star_   
_it makes no difference where they are_

* * *

_the future is a dying art_   
_laying in a ditch in the dark_   
_I need you here but all I hear_   
_is the beating of a broken heart_   
_don’t wait to say goodbye_   
_you’re running out of time_

* * *

“You’re never going to tell them, are you?” Meg asked, once they were alone.

Castiel sent her a hooded look. It was one of quiet warning, appealing to her to drop the subject.

“How you brought me back.”

“As far as they’re concerned, you never died. It should be left at that.”

Her lips pulled apart in an almost bitter smile as they walked. “Look who’s falling for his own lie.” She might've been proud of his deception if the reason for it wasn't so afflictive.

“That’s enough, Meg.”

_Always so afraid your pets might hear of your sins_. “I suppose they’ll figure it out eventually. In a decade or so.”

It was Castiel’s turn to sigh. He knew she was still pissed at him, but what’s done was done, so… to hell with it. Live and let live while they still could. He felt dark eyes on him, felt the heat of her stare burning through his flesh. “We’re not going to survive that long, anyway.”

Meg’s bark of laughter was harsh. “Yeah, and what if we do? What if _I_ do? You think I wanna live alone in this cesspool?”

One corner of Castiel’s mouth quirked up. “I thought you liked being alone?”

Meg smiled back, enjoying his volleys. “Maybe you’re just too entertaining to lose so soon. I need _at least_ a few more decades to really sink my claws into you.”

Affection skirted the edges of his mouth, his gaze slanting to regard her in passing. “That was almost a compliment.”

Meg suddenly lost all trace of humor, stopped walking. “I’m serious, you know.”

Castiel stopped too, staring down at her. “So am I. You think I wanted to be alone?”

Meg looked away, rolling her eyes. “You have people.” He crowded her space, inspecting the wound at her side again carefully, and she went on. “You have family, brothers. Land of misfit toys and all that Team Free Will shit.”

“They’re not you.” His voice was low and intimate beside her, his hands gentle, and she tried to ignore it.

“Don’t try to be romantic, you suck at it. You could’ve had anyone. People might be dropping like flies, but there are still plenty of womenfolk who’d be happy to fawn over a fallen angel.”

“I didn’t want _any_ one. Call me sentimental.”

Meg snorted, swatting his hands away, and took off walking again. “Oh, I will. Incessantly.”

Castiel’s smile was halfhearted, tired. “I know you will.”

“Hear anything rattling around in that noggin of yours?”

Castiel shook his head, eyes narrowing against the sun. “Just an aching head. I… don’t hear them anymore.”

“So much for good news.”

“Yes. I’m sure our fearless leader will be thrilled.”

Meg leveled a crooked smile his way as they stepped into a nearby apartment building that was abandoned. “Grumpy little shit. Love it.”

As they scavenged, Castiel presented her with two weapons, a short barrel shotgun in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other. The silent question went unspoken.

“Baby, you know I like something with kick.”

Castiel tossed her the shotgun without a word, smirking a little, and slung the rifle over his own shoulder. Meg hummed to herself as they began clearing the first floor of the complex and it did well to set him at ease, in an absurd sort of way that he couldn’t quite explain. After a few minutes, catching a lyric here and there, he became even more curious.

_Fell in a cement mixer? Drowned in a hot tub? Crappy purple Scion? Danced to death at an east side night club??_

Castiel’s brow quirked, a bemused expression crossing his pinched features at the words spilling from her lips in disjointed harmony.

Meg noticed his expression after awhile and was amused. “It’s a song, Clarence. Expand your horizons.”

Castiel shook his head, ducking under a broken beam. “I’m an angel fallen to earth having sexual relations with a demon. My horizons are vast.”

A broad, dimpled grin spread wide over Meg’s apple face. “Was that a joke?”

“I can be funny.”

Meg had half a mind to jump him right there, but Castiel had gone still. He stared, almost sightlessly, out the open doorway into the back courtyard of the complex. Meg regarded him uneasily, given his sudden demeanor. Hesitantly, she drew up beside him, following his stare.

There, spread out over the dying lawn, were the bodies of at least a dozen angels. It was clear they had died mid-battle, having killed each other.

“Damn it,” muttered Castiel, averting his eyes sullenly.

Meg sighed heavily beside him, glancing his way. “Sorry.”

“This was a waste of time.”

Irv and Mathew had died for nothing. _For nothing_.

Meg observed the harsh cut of his scruffy jaw, the tense lines of his body and face. The blue of his eyes was dull and angry and she knew how badly this affected him—more so even than what he allowed her to see. Castiel hid so much from everyone nowadays. Before, the angel had practically been an open book. He often spoke what was on his mind, what he was thinking through every experience. He was childlike almost, in that gruff way only he could manage. Now, though, he was much more withdrawn. He rarely spoke of how he was handling things—which worried her. He was a prime example of the old _fish out of water_ adage even when he’d had his powers, but now he’d had humanity forced on him and he wasn’t saying anything.

Meg wasn’t big on sharing circles, and she really didn’t give a shit about the angels, but she knew that he did. She wished he would say something—wished she could say something, anything, to lessen the grief that was eating through him. It was a sentiment she wasn’t well acquainted with—this inherent need to put an end to his suffering. At least not one she’d felt for a very long time.

_You can_ _’_ _t save everyone, Castiel._ Meg regarded him dismally, knowing that even if she spoke the words aloud, he wouldn’t listen. _And you can_ _’_ _t save someone who doesn_ _’_ _t want to be rescued._

Castiel turned away from the sight, back into the complex, and began his angry march back to the crew. There was a sudden clatter above them, and then a sensation not unlike stepping into a brick wall as Meg stopped him with a hand on his chest.

His gaze darted to her face. “Meg?”

Eyes black as pitch. “They’re coming.”

“What’s coming?”

“The hell you think?” Meg’s tone was dark, battle ready.

Castiel stared at her, grim realization dawning in his eyes. “Croats,” he said.

In the distance there was a shout, chased immediately by the sound of gunfire.

“Shit,” she murmured, looking around.

Beside them there was a crash, and then Castiel was being tackled into the wall. Picture frames coated in dust were knocked from their places and sent crashing to the floor as he grappled with the rabid Croat that fought to sink its teeth into his flesh.

Meg brought her knife glistening to the light, a second away from intercepting the parasite when she suddenly had her own armful of snarling infected to deal with. “Cas!”

He punched his way partly free, struggling to get a weapon out. The rifle he’d picked up clattered to the ground at their feet and was kicked aside. Any leeway he made was quickly stolen, and the sound of more pounding footsteps above them was an ominous foreboding.

Meg stabbed and cast out her power, cutting her way free just in time to see Castiel tackle his new friend through the large picture window into the courtyard.

_Well, then._

Meg brought her recently acquired short barrel to arms, no longer wary of catching her companion with friendly fire. As Croats began filing down the staircase, Meg began unloading shells into them with some measure of glee. Other demons were tolerable, given her mood was decent. But she _hated_ Croats.

Castiel felt the bone-jarring impact as the ground rushed up on him. Glass rained over his body and jacket, and he scrambled over the broken shards to put some distance between himself and the snarling mass. He barely had enough time to get to his feet before it was on him. He fought it back with a series of blows, reaching over his shoulder and bringing the bow around. He was able to deliver a partial blunt attack with it, but none with the blade itself before the Croat knocked it aside and out of his hands. Castiel felt that ember of fury he’d been harboring flourish into a consuming flame. He was tired, grieving, and wanted to be as far away from this place as he could get. He surrendered to the rage, allowing himself the outlet.

With a growl he balled his fists and started swinging. His sidearm would stay forgotten in favor of a method more personal, _bloodier_. He wanted to _feel_ this creature’s death. He knocked the Croat back with several hard blows, and then he reached behind his back, gripped the handle of the machete sheathed there, and drew it out in a smooth arc and sliced it through the air.

The Croat’s head fell at his feet.

Castiel kicked it aside and began bullying his way through the small handful more that now blocked his way back into the complex. He cut and chopped himself a gory path, taking a moment to relish the satisfaction it brought him. Bloodshot eyes, awash in madness, glared into him during the frenzy. Castiel stared back, unflinching and unafraid. Daring them to finish him, daring them to try.

With nothing left to stand in his way, he burst back through the door, barely even flinching from the spray of blood that splattered the wall next to his head at the threshold. Meg was there, smoke pouring out the barrels of her shotgun. Together, they finished the last two.

Castiel pressed his boot against the chest of the Croat stuck on the edge of his machete and pushed, removing it with a squelch. He’d noticed over time that humanity seemed to render him less civilized, more barbaric.

“Move,” Castiel said. Meg followed, without question, right at his side.

As they raced back to the rest of the group, relief knifed through him at the sight of dead Croats and all of their people still alive. Despite this, there was a severe and dismal atmosphere amongst the men, and Castiel needn’t wait long to know why.

All eyes were on Yeager. He held his arm tucked close to his chest, blood oozing between his fingers and down his wrist. As he pulled his hand away, the bite mark became more clear.

_No. No, no_ _…_

The heavy silence was broken only by the cocking of a hammer. Bravely, Yeager straightened his spine and lifted his chin, nodding once at his commander.

Dean pulled the trigger and Yeager fell dead to the ground.

Castiel closed his eyes, turning away and sighing deeply. Dean rounded on him, expression a thundercloud. Meg drifted closer to the fallen angel, making her stance known and abundantly clear, should the situation escalate more than it already had.

Dean merely spread his hands, shrugging. “Happy, Cas?”

Though the words held a false note of affability, they were delivered as a growl, a slap to the face.

Castiel said nothing.

Dean shouldered past him. The other men began to follow, a small handful moving to collect the body for a proper burial. Sam clapped a tired hand on Castiel’s shoulder briefly as he passed.

“Just give him some space for awhile.”

Castiel stood quietly for a long time, staring at the dead body of their friend. He hadn’t gotten along with Yeager as well as some of the others, but this was no way for the man to die. Despite any disagreements they may have had, Yeager was a good man.

Castiel mused, not for the first time, that _he_ was not.

“Hey.” Meg’s shoulder brushed against his. “What do you say we get the hell out of here?”

“Yes.”

* * *

_can’t you hear us coming, people marching all around_   
_can’t you see we’re coming, close your eyes it’s over now_   
_can’t you hear us coming, the fight has only just begun_

* * *

Gradually, they made their way back to their own vehicle, alone. Under the heat of the sun, it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the pounding in his head. Hearing angel radio while in human form was a hazard in and of itself, and it usually left him suffering blinding headaches and a less than sunny disposition. It also didn’t help that he had several thousand years worth of memories trying to fit inside a limited mortal brain, which was ironic since he was still missing so many vital ones.

Castiel ducked his head, slipping a pair of sunglasses over his eyes to stem the pain.

“You okay?”

“You ask me that too often. I’m going to start thinking you care.”

Meg gave a delicate scoff, a fine dark eyebrow arching for her hairline. “Didn’t mean to give the wrong idea.”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

Suddenly he was pressing her up against the side of their jeep, his chest brushing hers as he closed the distance between them. One of his hands fell to the side of her neck, the other curled around her waist, and he was kissing her. _Yes._ Her veins sang, his touch sending that familiar thrill shooting throughout her entire body. Meg tilted her chin up, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Her other arm reached up and circled around his neck to pull him closer, fingers delving into the dark hair at his nape. He made a soft sound, leaning into her, mapping the familiar curve of her lips and body. She had a way of making him forget everything.

It didn’t last long, just long enough to leave them each wanting more. Castiel drew back, but remained close enough to see into her eyes, his hand tangling in the dark waves of hair that spilled over her shoulder. “I hate this,” he muttered.

“I know you do,” she said, knowing what he meant. Her fingers played with ends of his shirt, their noses brushing.

Castiel shook his head. “All of this, it’s—”

“If the next words that come out of your mouth are ‘my fault,’ I’m going to skin you.”

He sighed, turning his face away from her. It was actually the worst thing he could have done because, in doing so, Meg noticed the spots of blood peeking out from the collar of his shirt along the column of his neck and she reached up to yank it back before he could stop her. “Meg—”

“Did you get bit again?” she demanded.

“It’s nothing.”

Meg glared up at him, her expression fiery. “Here’s an idea. Fucking _evade_.”

Castiel shrugged her off. “I said I’m fine.”

True, he would be. Castiel could not become infected.

The first time he was ever bitten was a harrowing experience. For everyone, really. Barely even registering the blood pooling down into his boot, Castiel had scrambled for his machete in a panic, letting out a string of pretty curses he’d learned from either her or Dean, actually prepared to cut off his own fucking leg on the spot.

Meg wasn’t sure what made her stop him.

As she thought about it, without the use of both legs, the poor bastard would’ve been even worse. Newly human, assimilating with all the grace of a newborn fawn, and only half the motor function? He’d have been better off dead.

Then… Castiel simply didn’t turn.

Still, though—at least he’d gone for the machete and not the pistol. With the almost professional way he sulked and pined over the varsity days, she’d have thought he’d leap at the chance to punch his own ticket once and for all.

But no. Castiel wanted to survive.

Then there was that whole Deal business gumming up the works. Meg didn’t think he actually cared about that. Well, _cared_ , maybe—but definitely not as much as he should have. Nonetheless, after the Croat left his leg mangled and his foot broken, Castiel was laid up for two months and probably wishing he had just offed himself in a blaze of glory.

Meg remembered breaking Yeager’s nose when he’d tried to shoot Cas, and it felt almost ironic to recall it now. She assumed Cas was remembering, too. “Wheelman or wingman?” she asked quietly, allowing the subject to drop.

“You drive.”

The moment they each settled into the vehicle, Castiel reached for the glove compartment and the bottle of pills waiting faithfully inside. He tossed four back quickly, swallowing them dry.

“Take it easy, Anna Nicole.”

Castiel massaged his forehead briefly, leaning a shoulder against the passenger side door. “Wasn’t aware you were still my nurse.”

“Oh, isn’t that why you brought me back? To take care of you?” Not even the rumble of the engine could drown out her sarcasm.

Castiel avoided her eyes. “That isn’t why.”

“Hell it isn’t. I’m a glorified babysitter. Again.” She took the bottle from him and tossed it into the backseat.

Castiel felt chagrin. They rode in silence for awhile, the barren stretch ahead of them uninspiring. “Now what?” he asked, after a moment.

Meg shrugged. “Kevin wants us to restock his TP reserves.” She looked about as excited for that as one would expect.

Castiel’s expression was sour. “I’d rather search for more things to kill.”

Meg’s smoky laughter filled the cab. She patted his knee. “I like the way you think, hotwings.” She paused then, thinking almost out loud. “You ever wonder if we’ll get sick of the bloody violence we surround ourselves with?”

“Unlikely.”

Her answering smile was sharp and glittering in the dashboard light. _That_ _’_ _s my boy_ , she thought.

Tortured, angst-ridden, broody grump of a pushover. She wouldn’t have him any other way.

_Leaving Salvation_ , the dilapidated sign behind them read. Castiel regarded it grimly.

* * *

_the whole world’s sitting on a ticking bomb_   
_and it don’t care what side you're on_   
_so keep your calm and carry on_   
_cause it’s about to explode_


	3. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel stands at a crossroads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations will be located at the bottom of the chapter (though most of them will be cited and translated on the spot during your read). As you might note, this installment takes place several months before the events of chapter one.

**SACRIFICE**

_come with me and walk the longest mile_   
_for not a year later it's got you lying on your back_   
_you should have chained up all the doors_   
_and switched up all the locks_   
_how many times have I prayed_

* * *

11 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"Summon Meg? Why the hell would you ever wanna do that?"

Castiel glanced up from his assortment of supplies. Three pairs of eyes stared skeptically back at him, though it was Dean who had spoken up. The hunter looked impatient, guarded and disapproving. Castiel had expected as much from him on the matter. After all, Dean often expressed condemnation wherever Meg was concerned, so it came as no surprise. Perhaps if he understood her as Castiel did, his opinion would change. But then, he rarely heeded Dean's counsel these days. If anything, their roles had reversed and now Castiel often did the opposite of whatever Dean tried to get him to do. "She told me that if I ever needed her, to call."

"You don't need Meg."

Did he not?

Castiel was harder, less put together.

It had been a slow descent to witness. The former angel was depressed, angry, and had begun drinking himself into an apathetic stupor almost every night. Gone was the trenchcoat, the suit—in its place ratty old jeans, a threadbare tee shirt, and one of the brothers' unused jackets. He rarely slept—the act was intended to be peaceful after all, and Castiel's dreams were not. Over the past many months, he'd worked himself into a passionless rut. He was callous with everyone, bitter. He needed a shave, probably a haircut, and apparently had given up coping with humanity on his own if he was looking for his favorite partner in crime.

Meg was the light at the end of this oppressive tunnel. He knew somehow, inherently, that if he had her at his side, he could do this. Meg would pick him back up—she'd done it before. He just had to find her.

"Does he not kn—?" Kevin was elbowed so hard he thought Dean might have broken something vital. With a pitiful huff, he kept quiet and left.

"Don't you need to know a demon's real name for a summoning spell?" asked Sam, attempting to stall.

Castiel's expression was approaching amusement, and he gave a vain snort. "You think I don't know her real name?" He looked to each of them in turn and eventually sighed, as though they were giving him a migraine. "I won't bring her here, you don't have to worry."

Camp Chitaqua. It was fast becoming a sanctuary to survivors and a home base to every hunter in the area and neighboring states. The idea had started in the bunker and then Sam had scoped out some old land of Bobby's nearby—vast and sustainable enough to start putting up cabins and a perimeter fence. More and more weapons and supplies were being brought in every day, and they'd start growing their own crops soon if things continued on the way they were going. They didn't know that, when the seasons ended, these plans would fall apart. Everything would fall apart.

Dean's bark of laughter was harsh and loud. "So then what? You're gonna leave and run off with your little pet demon? Buddy, you'd have been better off with April, and that bitch tried to kill you."

Castiel ignored him, slinging the duffel over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"Cas—" That was Sam. Attempting again to dissuade him.

"Meg's dead."

The words were delivered like a gunshot.

Castiel froze in his tracks, fingers tightening around the doorknob so hard his knuckles splashed white.

As an angel who had done more wrong than right, Castiel knew of despair. Knew it like an old friend. But something was very wrong with him now. He felt as though his chest was shrinking, as though his very human heart was becoming crushed by the force of the ribs around it. He was certain that the ground was tilting beneath him, and he could no longer be sure of his own footing.

He felt as if he couldn't _breathe_. As though all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Castiel turned, his vision strangely fuzzy.

"What did you say?"

He heard his own voice come as if from a distance, but his eyes were fixed on Dean's face, unmoving and unforgiving.

His friend might have looked guilty, might have even looked sympathetic at one point, but it was quickly repressed. Dean was harder these days, too. "I said, Meg's dea—"

Castiel didn't even hear the rest of the sentence. It was drowned out by the roaring sound in his skull.

Meg was dead. Meg. _Meg_. Dead.

Meg was _dead_?

No. Dean was lying. Dean was wrong. His lips parted to speak, but no words followed, his voice somehow gone. 

"Shit."

That voice was Sam's again. Soft with compassion, rife with pity. Castiel wasn't looking at either of them anymore. They had been there, he realized. They had been there and they hadn't stopped it—hadn't even cared to tell him until now. Did they even slow down? Did they even look back? Castiel suddenly hated them both with an abrupt, irrational strength.

Except _no_. Meg wasn't dead.

She _wasn't_. _Dead_.

Because if Meg was dead, he couldn't do this. If Meg was dead, she wasn't alive.

" _No_."

His voice? It didn't sound like his voice.

"I don't know what to tell you. We both saw it. Crowley killed her while you ran off with the tablet. So… put on your big boy pants, deal with it, and move the fuck on." Dean knew he was being unreasonably harsh, but if Cas spiraled down any further than he already had, it was possible they would never get him back, that he might never recover.

Castiel couldn't even look at them. Not now. Not with those words hanging between them. He stood in the same place he'd been standing five minutes ago, not sure where to even put his feet. Throughout it all, he listened with isolated sorrow, feeling like he was somehow an outsider to his own body. In light of his sudden emotional state, the irony of that sensation was lost on him. His thoughts swam listlessly.

"Cas, I'm sorry, man." Sam, again. There was true remorse in the larger hunter's eyes. He wondered what more he could say, if there was any magic word or phrase that could help alleviate the struggling look of near-torment behind the human face in front of him. More than once, he came up empty.  

Dean looked like he might have felt something approaching empathy, but it was outweighed by frosty confusion. "Why are you so broken up over this? You had half a fling with the little—"

"You know _nothing_ about what she was to me, Dean Winchester." Everything came rushing back to him in a torrent of fire. Blind fury simmered at the edges of his mind and, for a moment, he was almost as imposing as he was when he'd been an angel. "She was more than just—" Castiel broke off abruptly, temper fracturing as the words failed to find him. His eyes darted around, lost, mind racing. He didn't know how to put it into words, nor what he was even trying to say. Almost all fire left him, though the crater of pain burrowed only deeper into his chest. His shoulders sagged, defeated without cause.

It was as if there was a block on his mind suddenly. One angry tear slid halfheartedly down his cheek, which he was too dazed now to even notice. What _was_ he mourning so deeply? He felt robbed of something—her, unmistakably, yes. But there was more he was missing. Something he was forgetting. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was _right there_ , but he couldn't grasp it.

Sam and Dean both looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

Perhaps he had. It wouldn't be the first time.

Castiel visibly regrouped himself, vying for composure. "Crowley?"

The effect was immediate on the brothers.

"Don't you fucking dare."

"Cas, you can't—"

Crowley was still imprisoned in the basement of the bunker, insurance against Abaddon, a useful informant, and the only hope they had to deciphering Metatron's spell.

Dean looked reluctant but violent, and Sam quickly intercepted him, putting himself between Cas and the door instead. "Don't do this, man. We need him. You _know_ that. Just give us some time to—"

"Get out of my way." Castiel's low warning was cut from ice and serrated like a blade.

"Goddamnit, Cas. Did you hear what I _just_ —"

"I'm not going to kill him, Sam, I'm going to look for her!"

Both hunters started at the unexpected retort. "The hell are you talking about?" Dean spoke up from behind them.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder to level his friend with a menacing look. "You think that waste of filth actually killed her? _Meg_? Not possible."

"He did, Cas." Sam's voice was soft beside him. He looked as though he knew something Castiel did not. The regret alone in Sam's eyes should have been enough for him to know that any denial would be in vain. "Meg wasn't just fighting for herself this time."

Though it went unspoken, Castiel thought he understood the weight of what Sam was trying to tell him.

There was that sick feeling again. Castiel's mouth went dry. 

"No." He shook his head, vehemently rejecting the possibility. "No. You're wrong. And I'll prove it to you."

* * *

_sitting in the dark I can't forget_   
_even now I realize the time I'll never get_   
_another story of the bitter pills of fate_   
_I can't go back again_   
_I can't go back again_

* * *

_in another time we would be as one_   
_in another place our lives would've only just begun_   
_we walk beneath the sun, we lie beneath the stars_   
_it didn't have to be this way, but this is what we are_

* * *

_Amarantha. Qui vocat te._

It had been several minutes since he'd spoken those words into the twilight, his incantation punctuated by the roll of thunder. Several minutes since striking the match, lighting the herbs, completing the spell. Several minutes, and still he stood alone in this barren wilderness. The anonymity of the dark suited his mood. 

He had set up the summoning ritual in a small clearing just outside the camp, the first few droplets of rain spattering against his shoulders in commune. Beyond the treeline there was nothing, yet somehow it was more inviting than the patch of civilization at his back. The darkness beckoned him with its obscurity, a more companionable ally than the thought of facing the approaching dawn. A new day meant failure, it meant he was still alone. The darkness promised something more—a secret hidden in its depths that he couldn't quite unravel yet. It swore it would have him soon.

Castiel counted the seconds.

When eight minutes passed, he reset the ingredients. He again struck the match, and again he spoke the Latin phrase.

" _Amarantha. Qui vocat te._ "

The herbs lit, sizzling under the light rain. His chest cramped with unease. The night beckoned him, mocked him with its vast, empty hollows. The clouds groaned louder.

Three minutes.

Again.

" _Amarantha. Qui vocat te. Congregandum coram me._ "

It was becoming difficult to light the match.

Castiel closed his eyes. " _Veniat_ ," he whispered tightly, a terrible ache falling over him like a shroud. His knees yearned to bow, to fall, to surrender completely. They nearly buckled beneath his weight, refusing to afford him steady ground. " _Obsecro_."

Again.

Again.

Twelve minutes.

The match wouldn't light.

Castiel wiped the rain from his eyes and face angrily. " _Meg_ ," he ground out. Tried again. The match still would not light. His stomach knotted, an invisible vice clamping around his throat. Rainwater had gathered in the summoning basin, its contents waterlogged. Castiel swore and kicked it over, feeling as though he were the one drowning. " _MEG!_ " he shouted into the blackness, at the weeping sky. Not even the usual sounds of twilight replied now—nothing but a gaping, vast emptiness surrounding him. No wind, no leaves rustling. Just the unremarkable hiss of rain. 

He called for her again. And again. Until he was screaming it, until the phantom echo of his true voice could almost be heard wailing violent against the trees. Were he still as he once was, it would have bowed them over, uprooting several until the forest was left decimated under the desperate need to destroy everything in his path. But his voice was gone and Meg was not answering. 

The gathering storm began to drown him out, swallowing his furious cries.

She couldn't desert him… could she?

_Would_ she?

He refused to accept the other possibility, so instead he screamed and shouted himself hoarse in adjuration until he had hardly any voice left. The idea that she'd simply abandoned him was a less painful alternative, but even through his feverish denial, the truth stared him in the face. That night, from the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, a plan was forming. The desperation clawed at him, consumed him, blinded him until he was driven to madness. The downpour that followed did nothing to cleanse him, and with a cruel efficiency it washed away all evidence of the ritual, blood and rainwater meshing over the mud.

Castiel felt the ire drain from him, along with any and all signs of life. It was quickly replaced by a more real, tangible feeling. One that swallowed the remainder of his fortitude like a marauding black hole.

This new feeling promised solace.

It swore he would have her at his side again.

* * *

_I will stumble and fall_   
_it was over my head, I know nothing at all_   
_I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you_   
_anywhere I would've followed you_   
_say something, I'm giving up on you_

* * *

_the other me is dead_   
_I hear his voice inside my head_   
_we were never alive and we won't be born again_   
_I'll never survive with dead memories in my heart_

* * *

The door to the dungeon burst open.

Crowley looked up in surprise, faced with the somewhat intimidating sight of his intruder jamming the back of the nearest chair under the door handle in defiance of the alarmed shouts carrying from the other side.

Six solid feet of angry Castiel stared back at him then, and Crowley felt the first stirrings of fear.

"My, my. Something tells me you're not here with the coloring books I asked for."

"Be quiet and listen."

Castiel's voice was a cracked, grating sound, though no less menacing. He was drenched from head to toe, black hair falling in damp spikes over his eyes. Curious, though not really caring, Crowley wondered what had happened to him. Behind them, the sound of pounding carried from the door, adding a worrisome flavor of urgency to the mix. "You have my undivided."

"Where do they go?"

Crowley's brow wrinkled, head canting. "Eh?"

" _Demons_ ," Castiel all but snarled, his expression desperate and murderous. "When you _die_. Where. Do you. _Go_?"

Realization dawned and, like a shark tasting blood in the water, Crowley offered a hellish smile. "So. The Grimm Brothers finally told Sparkles that the big bad wolf shanked his favorite plaything?"

" _Answer the question_."

Gone away was the anguish—in its place, something infinitely colder.

"Oh, you don't know half the things she screamed when under my care, mate."

Before he even realized what was happening, Crowley felt his chair lift clear off the stone floor as Castiel hauled him forward into a stranglehold.

"She would never scream for you, _stain_." Blue eyes, clear and sharp as the sea at the brink of a storm, burned into him like a brand.

Crowley was aware that the little angel of Thursday had lost his grace in the Fall, but holy hell was he still strong. The fierce, dark and penetrative quality of his presence was still just as stifling, his voice no less commanding than it was when he'd been at full power. "No," Crowley choked out, knowing he held the winning hand. "It wasn't me who broke her, you're right." He dealt it with all the care of a sucker punch to the gut. "It was the constantly calling your name with no answer."

Crowley watched with savage glee as the color drained from Castiel's face, stunned dismay washing over him. The demon reveled at the look of horror that pooled in those blue eyes now.

With a loud thud, the legs of Crowley's chair hit the floor.

"I… I was in Purgatory."

"Doesn't matter though, does it?"

No. None of it mattered.

She had needed him and he'd failed her.

* * *

_know I've done wrong_   
_left your heart torn_   
_is that what devils do?_   
_took you so low, where only fools go_   
_I shook the angel in you_

* * *

_There was the putrid stench of sweat and blood in the decayed, underground quarters. Screams lingered heavy on the air, echoing through the stone halls and nestling against the spines of every inhabitant in a kiss of ice. The promise of death visited every soul, but inconceivable torments overshadowed the light of any hope for escape._

_"Castiel."_

_Every surface was discolored with rust and blood, often black with putrefaction. The ceilings were rotting, leaking fouled water onto the floors and whatever inhabitants found themselves unfortunate enough to be trapped there._

_"Castiel?"_

_Various instruments of torture surrounded her. Meg moved her wrists halfheartedly, fruitlessly, against her bonds._

_"Come on, you ass," she said quietly against the dark._

_She received no response. Never would._

_She'd been praying to him for months, all with no reply. Her mind didn't even bother to conjure up the telltale sound of fluttering wings to set her at ease. There was just nothing. Meg knew she should have expected this outcome, but the sting it brought her felt too much like betrayal. She berated her own foolishness, hating that ember of hope that had nestled so lovingly beside her smoke. His absence left her weak, and she'd been an idiot to think that perhaps she could know again the comfort she'd once felt with him._

_She would never know that he couldn't hear her. Never know that, had he, he would have gone to her in an instant._

_In facing Crowley months later, Meg knew she would have stayed behind either way._

_She went with a smile, all while assuming he'd merely had better things to do with his time than cater to the whims of her well-being. Had she known that he himself had once whispered her name in the dark, in the hidden realm of that twisted place somehow worse than Hell, maybe she would've fought a little harder to stay alive. To be with him._

_"Was he worth it, whore?" asked the King, just before slipping that angel blade between her ribs._

_Yes. He was._

_That stupid angel was worth every burning, flesh-searing torment she'd endured and so much more._

__Meg had always inherently known that, since falling into his arms in that ring of fire, Castiel would be the death of her._ _

* * *

_it seems the pain's been traded_ _since I pulled you through_  
 _and now my mind's been so jaded_  
 _and I would kill myself for you_

* * *

"You saw her true face, so I can't help but wonder—did you just not care, or did you look on the face of the beast and like what you saw?" Crowley's smile was slow and predatory. "Or… _maybe_ … it was simply less monstrous than your own reflection. Just how many sins did she get you to commit, Castiel?"

The slithering, silk voice curled like smoke along his quarry's spine. Still so much lost to the recesses of the celestial's mind… should he tip over the dominoes?

The numb sense of bereavement vanished in favor of threatening Crowley with more violence. Castiel's angel blade dropped from his sleeve and into his waiting hand. "She may have been a plaything to you, but she meant _everything_ to me."

"Did she? How much though, I wonder?"

"Answer what I asked you."

"Nothing." At the blank look on Castiel's face, Crowley elaborated. "When demons die, we become nothing. Heaven won't take us, Hell already had us. We're too highbrow for Purgatory, so we become the void. Sometimes there're remnants left behind. A fingerprint, like a ghost. Short of that, we're dust in the wind."

"Could an angel bring her back?"

A smirk. "No, but you already knew that."

An angel resurrecting a demon would defy the laws of nature, the law of God himself. It was impossible, though if anyone could do it, it would surely be Castiel. Oh, but he'd lost his halo, hadn't he?

" _Adrpan_ , little angel." Enochian. It meant _cast down_. It was intended as a challenge. _Fall further_ , it said. "Now. Ask the question you really want to know the answer to."

_Could a demon?_

"What are you planning to do, Castiel? What exactly are you _willing_ to do?"

Crowley had spoken those words to him before. The memory inspired rage inside of him.

Once more, Castiel seized Crowley's throat in a choking grip, the blade of his sword close enough to draw blood. The demon's wide, startled eyes met his, shrinking back at the promise of pain he dealt with the ominous crushing force of a death knell. "When I bring her back, you will know it. You'll know it as clearly as the fear you know now— _the fear of a king waiting to be dethroned_ _._ And there will be _nowhere_ for you to run."

Crowley was released with a shove, his chair tipping back from the vigor of it so that he was sent crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and sputtering curses.

The door to the dungeon slammed, and he was left alone.

* * *

_it's unforgiveable_   
_I stole and burnt your soul_   
_is that what demons do?_   
_they rule the worst of me, destroy everything_   
_they bring down angels like you_

* * *

Sam barely had time to register what was happening before Castiel was shouldering past him outside the dungeon.

"Cas—whoa, hang on!"

He was ignored.

Determined, he raced after his friend. Castiel disappeared into his own bedroom, and Sam burst in after him to the sight of Cas tearing the place apart in search of something. "What did you do to Crowley? What did he say to you? What the hell is—"

"Photo," Castiel muttered to himself. He needed a photo.

Sam ventured further into the room, trying to make sense out of what was happening and wishing to hell that Cas would stop freaking him the fuck out. Or at least take half a second to explain. " _Castiel_."

Cas knocked over his nightstand in frustration. "Goddamn it, where _is_ it?" he demanded of the room, the uncharacteristic use of language only making his friend more uneasy. Dean's holler of concern carried from somewhere deeper in the bunker.

Sam materialized at his side, gripping his shoulders forcibly. "Cas, shut up and take a breath. Tell me what's going on. Is this about Meg?"

"I found her," he replied distractedly. A lie.

He couldn't let either of them know what he was about to do.

"You found Meg?"

Castiel's eyes fell on his dresser, a spark of hope and recognition calming his storm. Again he pushed past Sam, yanking open the top drawer and reaching inside. When he withdrew, he had the old FBI badge Dean had made for him in hand. His identification, a photo of him… all he needed now was graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, and some yarrow.

Sam felt a sinking feeling claw its way into his gut.

"I'll return soon," Castiel divulged vaguely, and was gone.

From then on, Sam would always suspect. He'd never say anything to anyone about it, whether for his own benefit or theirs, he could never be sure. No matter what happened, what would happen, what _might've_ happened the night Castiel left the bunker to retrieve Meg, Sam knew it was done with the same earnest intent, the very same _human_ weakness that he himself as well as his brother had once displayed. Sam could not fault Castiel for that.

If _love_ was to be each their undoing, then perhaps they had a fighting chance left in this war after all.

* * *

_the wasted years have passed so slowly_   
_I will not live without you near me_   
_love cannot fit inside a theory_

* * *

_the other me is gone now_   
_I don't know where I belong_   
_dead visions in your name_   
_dead fingers in my veins_

* * *

12 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

_Soon_ took longer than expected.

Exhaustion crippled him, a deep and embittered dysphoria poisoning his integrity. He no longer felt righteous, and he'd abandoned all ambition towards decency in the face of getting what he was after. In the back of his mind, his thoughts cautioned him that he had been in this position before, with disastrous results. Just as he had then, he again neglected all reason and did so without care. Perhaps he was no different now than he'd been then. Perhaps he was still the same monster who had opened the door to Purgatory.

His motivation was different though, now. He was not chasing the power-driven desire for a million weaponized souls. He sought only one.

Castiel stood at the crossroads for the sixth time, staring down the scarlet-eyed demon who finally appeared. It wore a young man in a business suit, its eyes glittering with amusement before it even spoke.

"Castiel?"

It sounded surprised.

"I'll assume you know why I'm here, so we can forego the preamble."

"Well, someone's _pissy_. Yes, I know why you've been snuffing out my cousins. A little petulant, don't you think?"

"Your _cousins_ failed to perform the task assigned to them."

"Right. You're looking to make a deal. Easy to see, too, what with the cloud of grief hanging over that artfully tousled head."

"I didn't summon you to discuss my emotional state, demon."

It spread its hands in a manner designed to appear placating. "Help me out, since I'm a little curious… why would a fallen angel who hates demons ever make a deal for one?" At Castiel's critical look, the dealer shrugged. "It's fascinating. Sue me."

"Make the trade, or I'm leaving."

"What—not even a threat of mutilation if I don't follow through?" The suggestion of hellfire burned behind the red gaze, a mark of hungry anticipation. "Never had a soul like yours before. Give me a moment to bask." The demon narrowed the eyes of its stolen body, studying Castiel's face, trying to puzzle him out. "No take-backs, no changies," it warned, testing the waters. "I mean… you do _realize_ what an eternity in Hell would be like for an angel, right? What they'll do to you?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Castiel's tone was dry and dead, and the demon began to laugh. " _What_?"

"I'm just fucking with you. Watching you chase your tail was too entertaining to pass up. I _lied_ ," it elaborated when Castiel remained stonily impatient.

Castiel's answering growl was fierce. Anger and frustration clouded him and he advanced on the demon. "I'm _giving_ myself to you, leech. Take this soul, take whatever you want, just bring her to me!"

The demon shrugged, arrogance swelling in its chest so that it leaned in a little. "Sorry. Not allowed, _Clarence_."

Castiel's reaction to the name was a physical trigger and his anger exploded outwards in brutal reply. He lashed out, one hand gripping the back of the demon's skull and the other driving the tip of his angel blade up through the underside of its jaw and into its brain. There was a predictable flash of brimstone and Castiel twisted the blade once to silence the creature's scream.

Furious and even more desperate than before, he cast the corpse roughly to the dirt and stood there panting. He tried to get a handle on his emotions and bottle the rage. He'd killed so many already and _not one_ would deal! _Vermin_. He would slaughter a hundred more until he found one willing. In the meantime—what? More sleepless nights, more existing in a world that kept trying to spit him out, and more of the pointless circles he'd been running. Anguished, Castiel tipped his head back towards the sky, closing his eyes in defeat.

There was a quiet _tsking_ behind him and he immediately stiffened at the sound.

"You're breaking all my toys, Castiel."

He turned slowly, already knowing who the voice belonged to. "Abaddon."

Her fiery hair spilled over her shoulders under the moonlight like flame. Her gaze was deadly, calculating, looking over him as one did a meal. She positively reeked of dark power, poised like a predator before him. "How the mighty have fallen, and all that. Where's your grace, precious?"

"Gone. I have a soul now."

"And already trying to bargain it. That must be some kind of record." She gradually drew nearer to him, eyes combing him over more closely. "Still... I almost admire you right now."

"You can have my soul for Meg."

Abaddon visibly bristled at the name. A scowl marred the cold beauty of her face, and she looked as though she were fondly remembering a pet that had turned and bit her. " _Amarantha_. Lucifer's most loyal... until the day she met _Castiel_. Stupid little angel who led her astray. She would have become a Knight, if not for you _._ " Abaddon discarded all nostalgia, her expression chillingly stern. "No more deals, didn't you hear? We _take_ what we want." She circled behind him. Castiel tracked her with his eyes. "I could kill you right now," she mused, considering it. "You're so weak now and the stench of humanity pollutes you."

Castiel's own stare was coldly satisfied. "You know, I hoped I'd get your attention." He revealed the sidearm from inside his jacket, and Abaddon could practically _smell_ the devil's trapped bullet waiting in the chamber. Her chin throbbed at the reminder. "Either lose today, or have me in ten years."

"Depends," she replied. "How fast are you with that thing?"

"I've been practicing," Castiel retorted pithily, daring her to tempt him.

Abaddon chuckled callously. "I like this moxie, Castiel."

"You won't like my impatience," he promised, not even needing to indicate the already decomposing corpse at their feet.

Abaddon shook her head at him. "All this for a black-eyed little girl. A _traitor_ with a pretty face. And you've seen her true visage, you know she isn't really pretty at all. What a peculiar thing you are," she remarked. It was clear she couldn't quite figure him out and that it bothered her.

"You're not the first person to say those words to me."

"Oh, yes. The little Power who stood up to the _devil_. Lucifer, himself. My, my, that made the papers." Abaddon scoffed, angling away from him in disgust. "After you locked him away, Daddy gave his favorite soldier an upgrade, didn't He? But now you're human. You're _currency_ , no matter what side of the war you turn to." A fine eyebrow arched for her hairline as she turned back to consider him. "But the best part of the story has yet to come. _An angel falls in love with a demon_. That's maudlin, even for Heaven's little outcast." The Knight wore a sneer of distaste on her ruby lips. "What's worse is I think she may have loved you, too."

Castiel's resolve faltered unexpectedly at the words, and it was clear he wasn't prepared for them. It set him back a step. "I don't love Meg. I'm repaying her for saving my life. For her protection over me when I needed it."

Abaddon already looked bored. "Please. Don't try to con me, Castiel, and certainly quit conning yourself. An angel doesn't save a demon unless for love. An angel doesn't trade his grace, his human soul, for anything _but_ love. While we're on the subject, here's a plot twist for you: you'll never get your grace back if you go through with this. Ever think of that?"

He hadn't. "What are you talking about?"

"If you stain that grace's vessel with a deal, it can never return to it."

Castiel nearly scoffed. "You're wrong, or lying. Dean made a deal and Michael could have still inhabited him if he'd said yes."

Abaddon had clearly been expecting that and looked on him with a lordly satisfaction. "Dean wasn't an angel." She laughed, low and needling. "A fallen angel marked by a deal is no longer an angel at all. It becomes a human bound for damnation. Tainted. And since neither a human nor a demon can become an angel...? Do this, and that vessel you wear will reject your grace forever."

Castiel weighed the news heavily, allowing the reality of it to sink in.

The silence around them became almost deafening.

" _We sleep safely at night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us_ ," Abaddon recited, turning her eyes to him slowly. "I wonder if those were her final thoughts—thinking her savior would come for her?" Her hand rested in a falsely comforting way over his shoulder and Castiel hid the reflexive chill that washed through him in response. "You're brave, Castiel. But how brave?"

He met her eyes unflinchingly. "Are you going to take it, or not?"

Abaddon's smile was wolfish, her perfect teeth forming a white crescent in the near-darkness. "Oh, I will. And I think it's adorable that you think you'll survive for ten years. Not with what I have planned, sweetheart."

"Finish it already," Castiel growled, blue stare icing over in wintry resolution.

" _Mahorela_ ," Abaddon promised, drawing him into a brutal, searing kiss.

_Dark Heavens_ , rang the oath.

* * *

_but you asked me to love you and I did_   
_traded my emotions for a contract to commit_   
_and when I got away I only got so far_   
_you tied my soul into a knot and got me to submit_   
_so when I got away I only kept my scars_

* * *

_your fear it moves me_   
_your weakness I taste_   
_you want me, you love me_   
_and I hate myself_

* * *

After the crossroads, Castiel was mentally adrift, new and uncharted emotions surrounding him. Limbo, he'd later realize. Meg did not appear directly before him as he had hoped, so he was uncertain of what he was supposed to do. How did one behave when they'd just given up everything for the person who was still nowhere to be found? Miserable with tribulation and having nowhere else to go but back to where he'd started, Castiel returned to Camp Chitaqua, ignoring the few surprised greetings he received as he headed for his cabin. He shut the door quietly behind himself, considering what he would say to the others.

Tossing his jacket over a chair, he decided that would come later. Now, he was tired.

How long would it take? Would she even remember him? He hadn't been specific. There were so many questions swimming in his head that it began to ache.

Castiel turned, and there she was.

Sitting on his bed, hands folded in her lap. Staring at him like he might not be real.

Emotion swept over him like a current, unbidden. Something like agonized relief, something like fondness, rose inside him. The breath died on his lips and he felt a warmth that hadn't been there in a long time.

But there was pain in her eyes. "What the hell did you do?"

Her _voice_. Strong and dulcet like a battered cello. Castiel stood there, staring at her on his bed, not knowing whether to give in to the impulse that itched to gather her into his arms, or do nothing. Perhaps yell at her for getting herself killed in the first place.

"Meg." He said her name on a sigh. A weary sense of peace filled him, his lips tipping in something that resembled a smile. He knew then in that moment, _irrevocably_ , that it was all worth it.

She got to her feet. Boots, jeans, studded belt, leather jacket, talisman necklace—just like he remembered. Dark curls spilled over her shoulders chaotically like a tangle of thorns. Eyes still as sharp as arrows. "Answer me, Castiel! What did you _do_?"

It only hit him then that she was angry, upset with him in a devastated sort of way. Castiel had no answer, left speechless by her outburst. Meg put both her hands on his chest and shoved him, hard.

" _Say_ something!"

Castiel stumbled, his back meeting roughly with the wall. He was wearing only a tee shirt and jeans and the way he struck the side of the cabin gave her pause, but the rage and desolation otherwise blinded her to it. Castiel was looking at her like she'd lost her mind, his expression one of stark confusion.

"I saved you."

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" He stared at her, flabbergasted and now very concerned because Meg was _crumbling_. Why was she reacting this way? "You don't die for me, you piece of shit!" There was a strange, foreign note of desperation to her angry cries. Dread, he realized. An unmistakable, explicit sorrow fell from her and it stunned him. "Do you have _any_ idea what's going to happen to you? What you've _done_? No, of course you don't, because you never fucking _think_!"

Castiel gazed down at her intently, not backing up when she closed in. After a beat of tense silence, he collected himself. "I owed you a debt." Even as he said the words, they felt wrong and he knew he was a liar.

Meg, of course, was a liar by trade and saw right through him. Her lip curled in a snarl. "Fuck you, Castiel. Maybe I was happy being dead."

A cold, vast emptiness stared back at her. "I wasn't."

"How like a Winchester," she muttered acidly, shaking her head. It took some effort to ignore his piercing look, though she was satisfied her words had cut him.

His brow drew together in quiet anger, in a dismay so profound it shook him. "Meg—"

"You _stupid_..." she trailed off in a hiss. "Damn it, you're _better_ than this!"

"No, I'm not."

Meg rolled her eyes, ignoring the stormcloud brewing in his. "Bullshit! You're _Castiel_. Angel of the damn Lord. A Seraph! Guardian of puppies and prevailer of all things stuffy and righteous. Don't for one second—"

"And you are a demon!" he shouted back, getting in her face and using his height to intimidate and corner her. "What right did you have to die for _me_? What was I to you but a means to an end? If anyone between the two of us has a right to be angry, it is _me_!"

Castiel was suddenly colliding with the wall again, tasting blood from the punch she'd given him.

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again," she growled from above him.

Castiel regarded her with halfhearted contrition, though the heated look he wore in no way diminished. "I'm not going to fight you, Meg."

"Damn right you're not."

Castiel picked himself up off the floor, cradling his arm which had struck the wall with a disturbing amount of force. "That's not what I mean," he told her, lowering his voice but not the urgency.

"Stop," she warned him. "I don't do speeches."

There was something inscrutable about his expression and Meg ran her eyes over the harsh lines of his face, silently daring him to challenge her.

"Yes you do. I've heard them, and they mean something to me."

__I've figured one thing out about this world. Just one. You find a cause and you serve it. Give yourself over and it orders your life. I'm talking as in: reason to get up in the morning. I know what I'm supposed to do. And it isn't lose the only angel who'd go to bat for me._ _

Castiel spoke over her budding protest, his livid tone a testament to how provoked he was by her rejection of his actions. "I am still on your side. I'll protect you, and you'll _live_ , Meg. If it's the last thing I do. You can fight me, you can hurt me, but it won't stop me from being there when you need me most. I won't fail you again. I trusted you with my life once, in case you forgot." The tense line of his body softened a little. "Stupid as it was."

Did he even realize what he was saying?

"You idiot," she murmured.

The usual smokiness of her voice was gone, leaving behind something vulnerable and aching. She cursed him silently for the way he'd instantly restored her faith in him—those terrible moments as Crowley's prisoner long forgotten. How _dare_ he give everything for her.

"What else would you ever expect of me?" asked Castiel, and those impassive stormy eyes locked with hers and refused to let go.

" _Fight_."

"That's _all_ I've done."

He kept his eyes on her until something in Meg's opaque study of his face made him look away.

"You've done something to me," he imparted vaguely, not understanding and yet completely understanding the sway she held over him. Something stalled in the air the moment their eyes met again, and Meg unconsciously listed forward a bit more as she tried to decide what to do. Something in Castiel's expression was a vivid reminder of how he'd been before—of how _they_ had been, once.

"Bringing me back was a mistake."

What would ever possess him to place such _trust_ in her, to the point where he would sacrifice so much? The silence in the room only amplified the way his breathing deepened, the way her clothing rustled as she took yet another step into his space.

"I will never believe that."

The words were said with such _conviction_ , his voice low and thick and so laden with everything unspoken between them. Something about the tense look in her eyes should have warned him that she was about to do something.

"Mistake," Meg muttered again before reaching out and seizing him by the front of his shirt. He didn't even seem surprised when her other fingers dove into his hair and pulled him back against her, their bodies pressing flush to one another's as she kissed him hungrily. His arms were around her in an instant, large hands traversing her sides, the small of her back, the curve of her hips. He dove into her like a starving man. The feel of her lips was painfully passionate, as heady as the memory of how he'd kissed her once before, when there had been hellhounds chasing them.

The warmth and solidness of him everywhere against her was so beyond stunning. Her teeth nipped and tugged at his lower lip and she tasted the blood—but there was no burn like white acid on her tongue. Just the regular bitterness of blood.

Meg drew just enough away to speak breathlessly against his mouth. "What's happened to you?"

She'd been so distracted by her anger that she hadn't noticed his light was gone.

Castiel made a sound of implicit suffering. "Everything," he managed, the word swallowed by her lips. _Erase this, all of it_ , he thought desperately, knowing she would.

There was something very wrong with him, but Meg ignored the part of her that desired to find out exactly what it was. She needed to know him again, relearn him again.

Her fingers pulled at his hair and she invaded his mouth. Castiel's arms drew her tighter into him, needing to feel her everywhere and all at once. He'd missed her— _missed_ her. How could he mourn something he'd never known? How could he revel at the familiarity of this intimacy, the relief at her touch, as though it were a reunion instead of an introduction?

Castiel took the front of her leather jacket roughly in his hands, pushing it down off her shoulders, and Meg threw it away with haste. Her fingers slid beneath his shirt, scratching and pressing over the warm flesh of his chest and stomach, thinking how she'd once mapped the strong planes and ridges with her mouth.

_No. That never happened_ , she reminded herself. The bitter taste of regret made her even more desperate. Her nails clenched hard into his shirt, almost ripping the material apart. She raised it over his head and tore it off of him, giving him barely enough time to raise his arms. Castiel grasped her by the hips, lifting her into the air with a strangled sound of desire. Meg made a needy sound, tangling her legs tight around his waist. Something rattled on a shelf and toppled over when she was slammed back into the wall and Meg didn't care if it was payback from before or if he was just as inconsolable to the situation as she was. She gasped into his mouth, still needing more of him. Her nails dug harder into his back and with a groan, he leaned into her.

Her shirt was torn open and cast aside somewhere with his. Castiel pressed against her heaving chest, relishing the delicious feel of her soft skin on his, fingers tracking a path down the center of her body until he felt the ridge of scar tissue left behind by the fatal stab wound. Something inside him twisted at the agonizing reminder, needing to wash it away and yet needing to show her what it meant to him. Meg chased his mouth with hers, but he withdrew and did something that shocked her.

Lips finding the point of her pulse, murmurs spilled from Castiel's mouth onto her skin. The Enochian words were endearments he'd have never thought to use before, and they passed his lips unguarded. But Meg reacted to them like she actually knew what he was saying. Needing for him to stop, the words devastating her and rebuilding her all at once, she drew his face back to hers, determined to fall with him. Determined to find what had been missing, what she'd been craving, to see what effect this would have on him as though it would make or break her. Death had opened her eyes in new ways, in old ways. So much was different and yet everything was exactly the same. 

Meg moved against him and they swallowed each other's cries. Her cool skin was almost a relief against his. She reached out and raked her nails down his chest, tracing the curve of lean muscle and scarred flesh left over from a sigil. She remembered him telling her how he got it. Another scar that lay beneath his flesh drew her eye, impossible to miss, though he himself would never see it. The dark mark on his soul that spoke of the lengths he was willing to go for her.

His _soul_.

Meg knew in that moment that Castiel was human.

He was a man. Flesh and blood.

Sacrifice had marked them both, and the realization shook her. With renewed hunger, she deepened their kiss, making it impossible for him to breathe without tasting more of her darkness. Her body lifted into his eagerly and Castiel seemed to come apart in her arms. He couldn't seem to get close enough. Securing one arm around her waist, he used his other to push off from the wall, turning them to collapse with her on the bed.

Meg's hips arched and her legs tightened around him, her hands falling to his waist and working at the buckle of his jeans. Castiel's hands were gentler now, though no less urgent. Meg trembled underneath him, an almost constant litany of soft and desperate noises urging him along.

Soon, their broken moans and choking gasps mingled to drown out the growing uncertainty between and surrounding them, because _yes_ , he was just like she remembered, and she was everything he imagined her to be. With the rising heat between them, Castiel could barely focus his tangled thoughts, but, somewhere in those moments, he recognized that this was as close as he'd ever been to touching what he'd been missing for so long.

He cursed himself for not having the willpower or the strength to stop this from happening, even as, at the same time, he desired a thousand more moments like it.

This wasn't why he brought her back.

Or perhaps it was precisely why he brought her back.

He couldn't be sure of anything anymore. His emotions would be fascinating if they weren't so destructive. Because how did he know that touching her _there_ would elicit such a reaction? That kissing her _here_ would have her practically screaming? That when she moved like _that_ , he would crumble like the walls of Jericho in her arms?

Meg's entire body hummed with relief as she stared up at him. His hand pressed over her heart and he leaned against her, resting his weight gratefully in her embrace.

When he spoke her name— _her true name_ —Meg was not stunned that he knew it. Her entire being responded to his call, reacted as though he'd spoken it a hundred times. Fleetingly, he considered how odd it was that not even _he_ could recall when he'd come to know it. Lost in the haze of pleasure and bliss, Castiel would forget those small revelations, deciding that finally having her in his arms was enough.

* * *

_I breathe you, I hate you_   
_you course through my veins_   
_because I want nothing else_   
_I bleed you, since I've healed you_   
_your pain escapes through me_   
_I see you and I feel you_   
_oh I hate you, but I'd die for you_

* * *

_now I'm rising from the ground_   
_rising up to you_   
_filled with all the strength I found_   
_I need to know now_   
_can you love me again?_

* * *

"You just couldn't find it in you, could you? To let me rest in pieces."

His lips trailed across her bare shoulder, soft brushes of skin and eyelashes. "No," was his quiet reply.

Meg sighed and shifted towards him. "Come on. I was gone and you could go do your angel thing. It was better that way."

"No, it wasn't."

Naked and wrapped in the sheets of his bed, it looked as if she belonged there, as if she was born to make an imprint in his mattress, on his heart, and Castiel couldn't stop staring at her. He was still terrified that if he touched her, she'd disappear again. Tempting the thought, he ran his fingers through the hair at her temple, contemplating a dark curl he held. "I prefer your hair this way."

"So do I. If I was brought back as a washed out blonde, I might've shaved my head."

Castiel's nose wrinkled and she laughed. The sound was low and dulcet, a balm on his fading concerns. Meg's fingers trailed over the muscles of his stomach, her smile sly.

"What? A buzz cut not appealing to you?" she drawled, sliding against him to settle into his side.

Meg felt the huff of laughter rumble through his chest. "I think you would appeal to me in any form."

"Good to hear." Her nails dragged lightly over the ink beneath his flesh, just above his hip. "Dig the tattoo, Clarence. Mid-eternity crisis?" Meg's smile had its usual wicked tilt, though her lip quivered a bit. She hesitated then, dropping her needling tone and becoming more serious. Her darkness again searched out his light—that grace she'd never been able to look away from and that constantly drew her in. Instead, she saw nothing. Just the shell of a broken man, another fallen hero. "You're not an angel anymore, are you?"

It took him a moment to reply, the confession somehow lodging in his throat. "No."

Meg propped herself up, her dark eyes combing over his face. The tangled lengths of her hair fell in a curtain over his chest, and Castiel thought she looked exquisite. The dawn was just barely stealing through the shades on his window, bathing her in a morning glow that belied what she was. Her lips were still pink and swollen, faded bruises peppered over the milky expanse of her skin. Castiel thought the bite mark on his shoulder would probably still ache tomorrow. She was looking at him in a way he didn't think she had before, features softer somehow.

"Humanity's gonna kick the shit out of you," she told him, the words somehow holding no derision. Castiel's short grunt was without humor, but indicated agreement. Meg's hand trailed down from his shoulder, over the arm she'd unwittingly injured. Now that the heat of the moment was over, she could tell it was hurting him, even if he didn't show it. Her thumb slid over the warm skin of his bicep, regret making her frown. "How long has it been? Since you fell?"

"A year."

"Hm. Cookie for you, for sticking it out this long."

"I'm not sure how relevant pastries are to my sudden mortality, but I don't think having one would make me feel better."

Meg stared at him like he was both the bane and highlight of her existence. "You have got an ass where your head should be," she told him, affectionate exasperation coloring her tone.

He looked so utterly confused by that that he didn't even attempt to reply.

Meg chuckled, looking down at him with a fondness that belied the cut of her words. "You're lucky you still get my motor running like this." Her smile was sharp but genuine, and she ran a finger along the strong line of his jaw. "Humanity suits you. More corruptible this way."

Castiel gave a short laugh, glancing up at the ceiling as though it held an answer. "I was perfectly corruptible all on my own, if memory serves."

_And what good were memories, anyway,_ Meg thought sorely. She regarded him with rare, naked intimacy. "Violence begets more violence. We're all villains in some way, Castiel." She knew that he still felt the weight of every reprehensible thing he'd ever done. Sure, he'd fucked up, but it was time to move on. "The world is full of monsters, no matter where you look. Sometimes they're the thing you're fighting, sometimes it's the thing you see in the mirror. We do what we must, devil take the hindmost. I couldn't help what I did in Hell. Sure, it was my fault for landing there, but the rest? Not on me. It is and it isn't."

Raptly, his eyes slid over her face, drinking her in as though he were committing every line of it to memory. "That shouldn't make sense."

"Does though?"

"Yes."

"Mm."

His hand rose to brush against her neck, fingers trailing gently until he was cupping her face. Meg felt herself unconsciously leaning into the touch. He was looking at her so strangely, so intensely. As though he were trying to see through her, into her. Castiel's thumb ghosted over her cheek, wistful.

"I can't see your true face anymore," he said quietly.

"Lucky you."

Castiel considered this. "Not really," he said, candor lacing his tone. "I rather admired it. I think I might even miss it."

That surprised her, stealing the witty retort right out of her mouth. Meg stared at him, not sure what to do next. "Then how do you even know it's still me?"

He smiled a little, an almost teasing glint in his eyes. "I know."

Meg's eyes narrowed at him. She poked him hard in the chest. "How?"

Her predictable impatience made him chuckle. "I don't know... I believe a part of me will always see who you are. There's a... familiarity I feel towards you that I can't always explain. Something that makes us kindred." At the dubious look she gave him, he went on more seriously. "You're still there, Meg. Even if my eyes no longer work as they used to. And... I find that I need you now just as I have before."

Castiel knew the way he saw her ran so much deeper than he could put into words. He could still see her in the same way that a blind man could still fall in love. He felt her, _could_ feel her, in every way that truly mattered. With the heart.

Their eyes locked and Meg shook her head. "You don't need _me_ ," she said, moving to get up. It was dismissive. Like the word, the idea of her own importance, left an unsavory taste on her tongue. But Castiel had reached out to grab her by the hand, and Meg let him stop her.

There was a defensive note of urgency to his tone, even though he spoke at her gently. "I _have_ needed you. I tried, Meg. Doing this without you. I couldn't. I..." His brow drew together introspectively, his own thoughts still a mystery to him. " _Wouldn't_."

Meg felt something spark inside of her. She was supposed to be done, and yet here he was, making her catch fire again, breathing life into her again. She hated him a little for it. But then, as trite as it sounded in her head, he was special. She'd known the second she laid eyes on him in that ring of fire that there was something different about him.

Castiel was looking at her like she was a rare gem he'd been searching for, as though she was the only trace of water in the desert he'd been mired in. He sat up a little, wanting them to be on equal ground. "I'm not giving up on you, either," he told her, needing her to know it. There was a time when Meg had never given up on _him_ —had believed in him when no one else had. "I won't betray you, Meg. I won't let you down again."

"Who the hell asked you?" she whispered, gaze retreating away from his.

Castiel's head fell to the side as he considered her. "You didn't have to ask. Isn't that the point?"

When he had awoken in the hospital, he had made no call, no plea. He had turned and Meg was _there_.

"You took care of me when I couldn't even ask for help. Then when you needed me, I failed. What was I supposed to do?" It was partially a demand, but the terrible need in his eyes was arresting. There was still something so powerful about him, a different kind of light that could never be extinguished.

Meg saw the raw, unfettered emotion and sighed. What was it about him that, no matter how many times they were torn apart, he was always _right there_ and fighting his way back to her? "Move on?" she ventured at last, halfheartedly lifting a shoulder.

Castiel stared at her intently, registering her words, before finally shaking his head. "No. I can't do that."

_Damn him_.

"We go, we go together, huh?" Meg relented, a grudging acceptance making her need for flight dwindle. His presence was grounding and again she found herself trapped in his orbit. Castiel recognized the way his actions still plagued her and he did feel remorse for it. Still, it wouldn't change what he had done, nor would he undo it if he could. He leaned into her, hand grasping tighter under her jaw, his eyes shouting the words he spoke quietly into the space between them.

"I will burn with you."

Something inside her fractured, like a violin string drawn too tight. Wretched veneration filled her like a cleansing rain and she shook her head at him. "Fucking martyr," she sighed, though the harrowed affection in her eyes painted a vivid portrait.

It was Castiel's turn to sigh. "If I can save one life in this world, after all the pain I've caused, it will be yours. I _needed_ it to be yours."

She'd saved him so many times. Wasn't it time he saved her?

"Well. Lucky me, then." Meg was visibly uncomfortable with where the conversation had gone, but she'd plastered a devil-may-care smile on her face all the same. She pressed a finger into his ribs, prodding for a subject change though she disguised it well. The way her voice cracked was the only thing that gave her away. She made sure to let her eyes rove over his form longer than was necessary. "Really, _really_ lucky."

The suggestive tone was obvious even to him and Castiel regarded her antics with amusement. "I feel somehow relatable to Adam, when Eve offered him the apple."

"High praise," Meg approved, dark eyes glittering. "Forbidden fruit always tastes better."

"In my experience," Castiel conceded.

"I'll bet." Meg's smile was wicked. "A reaper, huh?"

Castiel averted his eyes with a snort at her deliberate needling. "Not one of my finer moments." Meg was clearly enjoying his pain and he narrowed his eyes at her, considering. "Does it bother you I was with someone?"

"Bothers me that I wasn't the one to kill her."

Though her quiet rage was potent, Castiel somehow saw through her unspoken defense of him. "I wanted it to be with you," he offered, "if that means anything."

It did mean something.

The effect was evident in her expression, the way her fingers curled a little tighter over his before she eventually realized her transparency and quickly released him. Meg felt an unexpected though not unpleasant chill. As a demon, nothing should have been able to shake her. She frowned at the display of dependency, but argued silently that she had been _waiting_ for this moment, for so very long.

Castiel was bemused by her sudden and unusual hesitancy. The reticent uncertainty was foreign on her and he wondered at it. It looked like she was summoning the nerve to say something else.

Meg tempted her luck, though refused to look at him as she did. "You know... when you said you remembered everything, I thought..."

_So, which Cas are you now?_

She'd needed to know. _Still_ needed to know.

_I'm just me._

Was he?

_Really? You remember_ everything _?_

_If you're referring to the pizza man, yes, I remember the pizza man. And it's a good memory._

No, Castiel. That was just the first drop of ink on their page.

_Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence?_

Testing him. Seeing what the pieces looked like.

Him staring back at her, wishing he had the answer that seemed to elude him.

_I don't know._

Another memory skirted across her thoughts. Of the gentle amnesiac who had devoted his life to healing those in need of it.

Always his _memory_.

_I could jog his memory._

She could have. After all, she thought bitterly, they went way back.

Castiel's brow drew together, not understanding what she was referring to or the reason for her sudden mood shift. "Meg?"

Meg visibly backtracked, something vulnerable shining in her eyes, and she retreated from him in a way that left him troubled. "Nothing. Never mind. I was just gonna make fun of you for all the times your crazy ass made me play twister with you at the hospital. Joke's on me, though, since you don't remember shit."

It was the closest she'd ever come to telling him the truth—telling him everything. She could barely admit to herself what they were. It was too painful a reminder now that it was gone. Meg almost wished she could have had the same lobotomy he'd had.

The angels had buried some things so far down in his mind that not even the tablet could free it for him.

Meg wondered how much of his mind was still broken. How many pieces still missing.

Castiel was still staring at her in visible concern at the emotional retreat. He didn't think this was about his brief proclivity for board games. "Have I said something wrong?"

"No, Cas. Just... trying to find a way to be less pissed at you."

_Oh._ He seemed to accept that response, chagrin coloring his expression. "I don't regret it. No matter what you say, I never will."

Meg sighed. "Yeah, I know." She leaned into him, over him as she pressed him back into the sheets. Her fingers slipped thoughtfully through his hair as he watched her, unused to such gentleness from her. His arms tightened around her a little, drawing her closer until she finally laid down across him, her cheek flush over his chest. His breath felt warm against her skin, but the way he flexed his fingers against her sides reminded her that, once, he could have very easily killed her.

"I'm a demon, Cas," Meg said vaguely, cagily. "We know what it is to be torn apart and put back together. Again and again until there's nothing left but to obey an order."

Her words were a comfort, though he couldn't pinpoint the reason for her saying it. They implied so much more than she was letting on.

It only cemented the notion that no one would ever understand him like she did. It felt almost childish to admit such a thing—even to just himself. But it didn't make it any less true. With her, he could breathe a little easier. Didn't feel as though he was constantly suffocating in his own skin. This body that was now his. Having her was a blessing, as ironic and twisted as it sounded. Castiel felt somewhat ashamed by it, but was too relieved and at peace to care. He was still a walking disaster, but at least she had experience in picking him up out of the dirt and getting him back on his feet.

_It's a gift_ , she'd say, that velvet voice she had twisting into the sarcastic drawl he'd never admit to revering.

"If you brought me back just to be your nanny..." Meg began in grumpy forewarning, as though she'd been company to his running thoughts.

Castiel actually smiled, touched by the familiarity of her being annoyed with him. "I brought you back to be... you. If you don't want to stay, don't feel the need to just because I signed away the one valuable thing I have left. There's no debt. You owe me nothing. I just... needed you alive, I think." His voice grew soft. "So I could at least tell you that I was sorry."

Meg did stay, though. And showed no signs of ever leaving.

And trust Castiel to bargain his shiny new soul away just for some half-ass apology. She hated him for getting under her skin and into her heart, hated herself for always being a sucker for a lost cause.

Meg was accustomed to fallout.

She'd sold her soul for a love that left her on the altar.

Then there was Alistair. Azazel. Then Lucifer.

_I'm doing this for the same reasons you do what you do_ , she'd once told Sam. Years ago, when she'd been nothing more than a soldier of darkness. _Loyalty. Love._

So many missions that failed her, so many masters who abandoned her.

But the fire _he_ inspired in her never seemed to die. Castiel was a single candle in a hurricane, but maybe he was the hurricane too. Maybe she was the candle. Meg had no idea of anything anymore.

Instead, she focused on the tangible—the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her, the possessive yet tender way he kept her tucked into his side, his finger drawing lazy circles on her shoulder. Meg knew he was a fool for thinking that simply having her with him would fix everything that was wrong with him. Still... no matter the reason he brought her back, she would follow him anywhere. She would look after him.

They had made a promise to each other long ago. Meg had no intention of ever going back on it.

"I have no idea what the hell I'm doing anymore, Meg. All I know is that I need you here, showing me how to... live."

She could do that.

While Meg and Castiel might have found themselves in a good place, Dean and Sam were hardly ambivalent about putting a demon up at the camp.

"Do whatever the fuck you want," Dean said, his bark of laughter void of all humor as he turned his back on them and marched off. He didn't even bother arguing, though he made it abundantly clear that if Meg made one wrong move, she'd be put down hard.

Sam was less spiteful about it, though no less reluctant. His face when Cas delivered the news to him seemed to say: _Fine. But I'm going to look at you sternly._

Castiel still had so many questions. Most confusing and overpowering of them all: what exactly was she to him?

_His_ , was the only answer he ever found.

* * *

_I'd give up forever to touch you_   
_because I know that you feel me somehow_   
_you're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be_   
_and I don't want to go home right now_

* * *

_you don't believe in space, you don't believe in light_   
_you don't believe that anything is well beyond your might_   
_we walk across the sky and beneath the ocean floor_   
_we're never going anywhere we've never been before_

* * *

That night, as they lay entangled with each other in the cabin—no longer his alone, but _theirs_ —something immeasurable happened.

They'd been discussing the possible whereabouts of Crowley, after learning that the King of Hell had been released following his assistance in expelling an angel named Gadreel out of Sam. Their conversation turned to other topics as she looked over the contents of his room, asking after bobbles and items he'd cared enough about to keep. She'd also noticed the large bow sitting in the corner, and Castiel explained to her that he'd found it while on a raid and that he was trying to learn it. Eventually, his sentences began trailing off, his words becoming mumbled, and Meg recognized with some fascination that he was falling asleep.

She wouldn't know that this was the first night in a long time that he was able to really sleep, falling into the sensation even though he still despised the vulnerability of it all.

Castiel was lying on his side, faced towards her, his eyes closed. There were no frown lines, no furrowed brow. Just a youth rekindled in the face he wore and that now belonged to him.

Meg didn't think he was quite asleep yet. The question had been afflicting her almost all afternoon and so she took advantage of the potential honesty of his answer when he was most susceptible to give it.

"What if one day I'm not here to take care of you?"

"Mm," came his tired grunt.

"Cas, I'm serious."

"Find you."

The words were said partly as a sigh, his voice sluggish and his breathing slow. Meg was determined to get a real answer out of him. "And if there's nothing left of me to put back together?"

He didn't say anything for a long time, and Meg figured he had finally fallen asleep.

"Unicorn."

She immediately started, feeling like someone had just tossed holy water down her back. He couldn't _possibly_...

Meg stared at his tranquil face, sleep-ridden and weighed with exhaustion. She'd have thought he was fucking with her if he weren't so obviously not. She had to have heard him wrong. Or Sam had told him, the little shit. Well... big shit. She'd literally piss in his cereal if he had.

Then there was the fact that Castiel was out cold and possibly just spewing nonsensical drivel.

Meg leaned in close, careful not to jostle him. "Pickles," she murmured against his lips, experimenting.

He grunted softly, frowning. "Th' clown do'sn't wan' any. Ducks stole 'm."

Meg buried her face in his chest and snorted, trying to keep her shoulders from shaking. If he had any idea how she was entertaining herself right now, he'd have cursed himself blue for ever bringing her back.

"Fix you," he whispered then.

Meg instantly stopped laughing, the words lancing through her as powerfully as if they'd been an angel blade.

* * *

_I don't feel like I am strong enough_   
_I don't feel right when you're gone away_   
_the worst is over now and we can breathe again_   
_I want to hold you high and steal your pain_

* * *

_The demon considered the despondent angel, lately so unforthcoming as he sat without expression on the side of the hospital bed._

_"I'm broken," he'd said._

_Meg was surprised he'd spoken at all, and she looked up from her magazine without a word, dark eyes studying him. His eyes were on her, a rarity to begin with, and she couldn't discern the look in them. He appeared so powerless in those scrubs, so unlike what he was and of what he'd been capable. The sight was wrong, and he appeared to recognize this, in the only way he could._

_After awhile, his eyes retreated from hers to gaze on the floor, his head hanging between his shoulders._

_Meg set down her magazine, easing forward until she was knelt in front of him. She stared up into his face, and Castiel's eyes flicked to her, trace confusion there as though he wondered why she'd willingly be near him._

_"I guess I'll just have to fix you, then."_

* * *

_with you, I'd withstand all of hell to hold your hand_   
_I'd give it all, I'd give for us_   
_I'd give anything, but I won't give up_

* * *

Meg was no smith, but she knew what it was to be forged.

From damned human being to master torturer. From soldier to pariah. A demon without a Hell who cared after an angel. Castiel had been broken so many times and every time he was reassembled there were pieces missing. She had always been so crippled by the fear and realization of what she could never have. But, somehow, he'd found her. He dove headlong into Perdition after her, knowing that this time a part of him would not be coming back. He would remain at her side, unfailing.

It was almost like redemption.

Meg felt a strange desire overcome her then. Feeling suddenly vacant without his touch, she hesitantly sought out the warmth of his skin, curling her fingers over his. Castiel made a soft sound, reflexively tightening his hold on her.

" _Mara. Ol aishh ol malpirg_."

To anyone else, the flowery words would have been merely a pleasant sound to hear. But he'd spoken those very same words to her before.

Something inside her came alive.

The air between them cradled an easy quiet, and Meg felt the very first stirrings of hope. When nightmares plagued him of Hell, she was there to remind him that the only relic of Perdition he had to fear was her.

Neither of them knew how much worse the world would become. Neither knew that Croatoan would _decimate_ earth within a few short months. Neither knew how the camp would be torn apart in another year. So much lay ahead that would not only lay waste to their fortitude, but to each other.

But they had this night.

* * *

_I'd breathe in fire and ash_   
_and I'd die a thousand deaths_   
_all for the sake of love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS
> 
> Latin:  
> "Amarantha. Qui vocat te. Congregandum coram me." / Amarantha. I call on thee. Gather in front of me.  
> "Veniat. Obsecro." / Come. Please.
> 
> Enochian:  
> "Mara. Ol aishh ol malpirg." / Mara. My woman of fire.


	4. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the choked atmosphere, he could still make out the smell of burnt ozone. Under the sun’s oppressive heat, he stood among an amassment of bodies. Sightless eyes of empty vessels stared up at the cloudless sky, the charred imprints of wings fanning out at the their backs. Without feathers, the markings were merely skeletal, which somehow made the sight all the more haunting. It was a dark mirror of another time. He’d stood in a field of his dead brethren once before, although he had been the executioner then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations will be located at the bottom of the chapter (though most of them will be cited and translated on the spot during your read). Also be sure again to pay mind to the assigned timeline of each section.

**FALLEN**

_hey sister_  
 _know the water's sweet but blood is thicker_  
 _do you still believe in love, I wonder?_  
 _what if I lose it all?_  
 _oh sister, I will help you out_  
 _if the sky comes falling down for you_  
 _there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do_

* * *

13 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Hael was volatile at first.

They'd found her amid a massacre of slaughtered Croats, eyes wild and afraid. There was torment in every ragged breath she drew in, suffering apparent in the way her shoulders bowed. The crew had her surrounded, shouting amongst each other over the female angel poised for attack. She held an angel blade in each hand, and much of her form was overlaid with blood. The long ribbon of black hair that belonged to her vessel was tangled, and the dirt and grime smudged over her face only made the brilliant blue of her eyes stand out that much more. Even in human form, she appeared otherworldly. Already she had been faced with incredible devastation, and—between the dead Croats and the bodies of seven other angels they'd already found—she was clearly expecting another gruesome fight.

"Find an angel blade!" Yeager ordered to the crew.

Hael hissed and shrieked at them in her mother tongue, sending several men flying back with a mental shove. Someone handed Yeager a blade and another man was prepping a banishing sigil. While Dean and Sam were both elsewhere, following potential leads on the rumored First Blade, Yeager had assumed the role of commander. Resolute, he gripped the holy steel tight in his hand and pressed towards the threat.

The sigilist was shoved suddenly aside, nearly falling over himself as Castiel fought his way to the front of the group, shouting for the men to stand down. He had Yeager disarmed within seconds, tossing the blade angrily aside and into the waiting hands of Meg, who arrived with him. Her expression dared Yeager to try and take it back.

"I'm not losing any one of these men for a fucking angel, Cas!" he snarled instead, getting in the other man's face.

"Dean may have put you in charge of this mission, but an angel in the mix means it's _my_ show now," Castiel delivered back, the assertive growl cutting any argument in half. There was a gritty urgency to the way he spoke and plainly evidenced in the tense cut of his shoulders. Castiel looked ready to fight, if it came to it, and he met the other man's eyes unflinchingly. "Now stand down before I put you on the ground."

He didn't even afford Yeager the chance to acknowledge the clear threat before he was already turning his back on him. Hael was still screaming, clearly terrified. Facing her, all previous trace of anger vanished from Castiel's expression and he held out his hands. " _Etharzi_!" he placated, raising his voice over hers.

Hael abruptly quieted as though a switch had been flipped, latching onto the single word. Her vivid stare arrowed to his, wide and startled.

Hael's vessel was small and slight, and her strength seemed out of place. Around her was an almost tangible cloud of pain. For well over a year, she had fought for survival in this alien place. Everywhere she turned, something was determined to kill her. Hael had not been to earth in several millennia, long before humanity tread where they presently stood. Alone and isolated for that long, harrowing year after the Fall, she'd finally found others of her kind only to see them butchered within the hour by their own kin. They'd banded together thinking that numbers would save them when, sadly, it only painted a larger target on their backs.

From the sidelines, Yeager shook his head. "This is too dangerous. Graceless bastard is out of his fucking mind."

"Don't remember anyone asking your opinion, cupcake," said Meg, having already tucked the blade safely away in her jacket. She looked on the scene with some measure of uneasiness, having little faith that this exchange would end peacefully. One wrong move, and that angel could snap and kill them all. Still… while she didn't trust angels as a rule, she did trust Castiel. She just hoped he knew what the hell he was doing.

Seemingly shocked into silence when all noise severed so abruptly, the crew stood back, practically choked with tension. Many of them still kept a ready grip on their own weapon despite any orders, dread nestling along their spines as the two angels, fallen and graceless, squared off.

" _Monasci_?" Castiel asked, approaching the other carefully as one would a wild animal. The angel said nothing, staring at him as though unsure of the threat he posed. Perceiving the suffocating wariness that plagued her still, he slowly drew out his own blade, laying it in the dirt at his feet in offering.

Behind him, Meg forcibly dug in her heels. She felt a galling pit of dread seize hold of her insides, and it took great effort to quell the urge to go to him after he'd rendered himself so stupidly at risk. _Of all the featherbrained_ … She closed her eyes disparagingly, willing the fucking idiot to be careful.

" _Monasci_?" Castiel tried again.

"Hael," the angel replied, all guardedness faltering. Her frosty eyes thawed, flooded with uncertainty and confusion as they drifted from the surrendered blade back to his face. " _Od ol_?"

He placed a hand on his chest. "Castiel."

The effect was immediate and absolute. Invisible armor cracked and split, opalescent gaze no longer fighting a war within but now pouring grief. Heartbreak fell over her, and Hael seemed to crumble. " _Esiasch_ ," she whispered tearfully. _Brother_.

Unconsciously, she took a stumbling step forward in relief and Castiel stared at the damaged figure in front of him, despairing at what she'd been put through. "Hael. I heard your cries."

She looked him over now with clear, ardent concern. "Without… grace." English was clearly a struggle for her still, and her lips tripped inelegantly over the words. She felt brief abashment over the handicap, shamed at being rendered so unprepared. So limited. All these _feelings_ , and each one more disorienting than the last…

First the terror and confusion that came with the Fall, then so much hatred and abject sorrow at seeing her brothers and sisters murdered by one of their own. In cold blood, and with such cruel, _needless_ violence.

"I can still hear angels. I could still hear you."

" _Killed_ them," Hael said. She looked at Castiel with a pained, haunted expression, one that cried out for any solace he could offer. Her voice, so thick and so laden with emotion, bore testament to the overwhelming sense of loss that had devastated her.

"Who did? Who killed these angels?" His voice held a clear note of anger, one that gave her pause. At her silence, Castiel pressed more gently, "Hael, who has done this?"

"Bartholomew." Her lament was briefly overshadowed by fear in speaking the name. Her eyes were downcast now, wounded gaze falling over the weapons she held in each hand. The blood there which she had drawn so inexorably. A new sensation filled her then, and Hael felt ruined. "We are all so ruthless and cold?"

Castiel recognized that dismal feeling as one he often harbored himself. "No, Hael," he said quietly, no longer caring their audience. And it wasn't a lie—not even a white lie. Because for every Bartholomew, there was a Samandriel. Brothers and sisters who gave him hope that they were so much more than just hammers. That they could be kind, gentle. _Devoted_ to the safeguarding of humanity, the one true mission. The _only_ mission that mattered.

Meg watched the two of them, enamored with the unexpected sense of kinship she felt. She knew this was something that Castiel struggled with, but to experience it in herself was startling. It left her introspective and a little… mired. So often she found herself thankful that she no longer required sleep, because if she'd had to face her unconscious thoughts or the dreams that came along with them, Meg wasn't sure she could weather such things. At least if she sought out a form of rest, she could do so in peace. Demons didn't dream. Dreams were a virtue of humanity, after all, and that was a classification she hadn't belonged to in a very long time.

"I'd like you to come with me," Castiel was saying. His words and demeanor were beseeching, and inwardly he prayed to whoever was listening that this angel would heed him. "We've built a sanctuary. If you come with us, I can help you."

Hael was looking at him as though she were terrified to believe him, lest her trust be broken yet again. She looked so small all of a sudden, so completely afraid and unwilling.

Castiel took a step closer, quelling that nagging fear that warned him against reaching out to yet another angel when past experience proved so disastrous. "There is a place for you, Hael."

"To fight?" she surmised wanly.

Her eyes showed such a vulnerability in them, like cracked ice. Castiel immediately shook his head, his refusal of that intense. " _No_. Not if you don't wish to. You can stay," he told her, voice quiet yet firm, "but you will never be forced to fight." There was an assuaging calm about him that was so disarming. It offered such security and _hope_ , the words falling over her like a warm veil she could get lost in. "You can have a _life_."

Fresh tears shone in her eyes, rounded and pleading at him in a way she didn't know how to voice. " _Virg_ ," she whispered. _Home_. Hael wanted to go home.

Castiel's expression crumpled as hot pain stole through his heart. "I know," he told her softly.

"So many dead, Castiel. So many in agony." Her voice became like broken glass. Heavy tears rolled down her cheeks as he approached her, his hands closing gently over hers atop the blades, silently willing her to lay them down. "I still hear screams."

"I know. I know." Castiel was already reaching out, drawing her into his arms and embracing her tightly. Hael let out a shattered breath and collapsed against him with heavy despair. " _Olani oai moooah. Ocaoa_ ," he said, anguished at the way she began to unravel. _I am sorry. Forgive me_.

The tender gesture seemed only to further loosen the floodgates to the torrent of emotion pouring out of the crippled angel. Hael wept inconsolably against him, the two angel blades hitting the dirt at their feet. " _Noib_ ," she managed to say, repeating the word several times between cries. _Yes_.

Overhead, clouds gathered in physical manifestation of the suffering display. Rainfall cascaded down in a light mist that was as cleansing as it was rueful, and raw, unbridled grief devoured her as gasping sobs wracked her small frame. Even still, through the haze of bereavement, Hael felt an incredible sense of amity, like a great weight had been lifted from her. She felt enveloped with the intrinsic realization that now, _finally_ , she was _safe_.

" _Fetharsi, esemeli_ ," Castiel soothed in a quiet hush. _Be at peace, sister_. His voice broke over the words, betraying his own distress and how affected he really was. " _Blior_." _Have comfort_.

Everything was gone in that moment except the feel of her trembling shape as she clung to him. Hael was in so much pain and he didn't know how to help her carry it, only that he _needed_ to help her. Castiel was clinging, too—allowing himself to confront the sorrow he felt as the guilt and misery spiraled through him.

" _Teloah_ ," Hael whispered against him through her tears. _Death_. " _Telocvovim_." _Fallen_.

Castiel cradled his frightened, grieving sibling close. Trapped in the body of an adolescent girl, plagued by the devastating shift of environment and the loss of so many kin, Hael could do little else but stand crying in her brother's arms and trust that he possessed the convalescent strength to keep her afloat.

" _Ol niisa_." _I will come_. "Help. Please."

Castiel smoothed a hand over her hair, closing his eyes. " _Blasn cnila_ ," he promised, holding tight. His own vitality was reinforced that day and, somehow, he knew he would not let her down. _Could_ not let her down. "I will fix this, little sister."

The sky eventually cleared that day, the sun breaking through the cloudbanks with scalding fingers. Its light had almost gotten lost behind the shroud, but soon gray faded to white, white flashed gold, and the warm rays finally reached down to where Hael stood as she became the first angel at Camp Chitaqua.

* * *

_dead angels speak to me sometimes_  
 _giving me advice that I should hear_  
 _wine spills in my blood tonight_  
 _blood spills in my mouth_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Dust swept across his face in the wind, biting at his eyes.

Even the opaque shield of the sunglasses he wore offered little protection against the gathering bowl storm. Castiel frowned, a muscle working in his jaw. It reminded him too much of ash. Even in the choked atmosphere, he could still make out the smell of burnt ozone. Under the sun's oppressive heat, he stood among an amassment of bodies. Sightless eyes of empty vessels stared up at the cloudless sky, the charred imprints of wings fanning out at the their backs. Without feathers, the markings were merely skeletal, which somehow made the sight all the more haunting.

At least twenty dead.

It was a dark mirror of another time. He'd stood in a field of his dead brethren once before, although he had been the executioner then. Castiel considered the bodies before him now, feeling an erratic anger swell from deep within himself that had no clear target. He held suspicions of who was responsible for such butchery, but, even if he was right, he was no closer now to finding Bartholomew than he had been months ago.

On his own for nearly a week, searching for angels proved yet again fruitless. Meg had argued her involvement for days before he'd gone out alone, and now he almost wished he'd taken her with. Holding parleys with angels when you had a demon at your side was nothing if not ill-advised, and yet, despite the rationale behind such a decision, Castiel was pining after her now. The surrounding death left him desolate and resentful, more importantly in need of distraction.

His head pounded, a steady thrum of pain that was developing into a real problem. With it, he felt fatigue. His body protested the strain he'd put over it these past few days, muscles aching in a mild way that would later get worse. Castiel knew the bottle in his jacket pocket was empty. He'd just have to make do without its contents until he returned to camp.

He'd noticed the stag a few minutes ago, watching him from about twenty meters away as it grazed on what little vegetation it could find. His bow was already in hand, arrow notched but not drawn back. Castiel considered over the possible meal, feeling the telltale pull of hunger on his insides. This course of action also meant building a fire, harvesting the meat to cook, and disposing of the remains. Once more, Castiel's eyes fell over the bodies at his feet and he felt a certain reluctance. Exhaling heavily, they dragged back up to the animal that was still watching him as though it recognized his dilemma. Perhaps it even hoped the hunter might go through with it, if the ribs showing through the hide were of any indication.

No. Enough blood had been spilled today.

Castiel returned the arrow to its resting place and slung the bow back over his shoulder, affording the stag a final look before turning away and heading in the direction of his vehicle. Despite that his stomach was empty, he had no real appetite. He opened the back door of the jeep, tossing in his pack and weapons before he climbed into the front seat, wincing a bit when he closed the door behind himself. It was hotter in the confined space, and his headache flared. Castiel's fingers gripped tightly over the steering wheel to still their shaking, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against the leather. It sat in shade afforded by the roof, and so it was cool against his skin.

He let out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

After awhile, he keyed the ignition and shifted the vehicle into drive, turning the wheel towards home.

* * *

_wine spills in my blood_  
 _and your blood spills in my soul_  
 _you have no control_  
 _you have no control_

* * *

Not far away, another figure dragged itself painstakingly through the dirt.

His form was battered and his body broken. Overhead, a small murder of crows circled, cawing anxiously. That was as close as they dared get to the creature. The town itself was small enough and abandoned, but in his current state everything felt miles away in distance. In between ragged breaths, the man pulled himself under the cover of the closest shade he could find. There, beside the crumbling wall of the alley, he lay slumped for several minutes.

With great effort some moments later, he propped himself upright, leaning his weight against the stone and mortar. He tipped his head back and exhaled a deep, shuddering breath, allowing himself brief respite before he glanced down at the body he wore. His side was a mass of fiery pain, which was becoming quite the struggle to endure. Carefully, he peeled back the disheveled suit jacket, exposing the angry wound that bled a reverberant, pulsing light into the hot afternoon.

A great measure of disheartenment filling him, the material was placed back gingerly over the evidence of his dwindling strength. His voice was too weak now. He would need to regain his bearings.

And hope that his enemies continued to believe him dead.

* * *

_after the storm I run and run as the rain comes_  
 _on my knees and out of luck, I look up_  
 _night has always pushed up day_  
 _you must know life to see decay_  
 _but I won't rot, I won't rot_  
 _not this mind and heart, I won't rot_

* * *

The little girl's name was Aubrey. She couldn't have been more than five. Currently, she was chasing after a group of other children, all of varying ages, and their boisterous laughter favored the camp with a more jovial façade than the grim atmosphere it usually carried. They kicked up dry leaves and tore around the cabins, dashing into the main path that connected the camp.

Aubrey stumbled suddenly over a rift in the ground, but before she could fall, she was quickly swooped into the air by a pair of arms. The child emitted a squeal of delight as she was embraced, kicking her feet out, and Hael's laughter bubbled over in chorus with the children's as they crowded around her. The young angel was always a willing participant in their games, adored like a sister among them and practically the camp's only means of childcare.

Many of them had no living parents. Many were just orphaned survivors taken in by the camp's inhabitants, or refugees that had been rescued while the crew was out on supply raids. No matter their story, the world as it was now was no place for a child. Hael had taken so quickly to the little ones, caring after them almost as though they were her own.

She lifted Aubrey high, steering her after the others, and the girl shrilled uproariously at the new advantage of height. Castiel had paused at the scene on his way back through the camp, the sight drawing a meager smile out of him despite his mood.

Aubrey had a head of wild, auburn hair that was endearingly in the way of everything more often than it was not. Given that and the similar budding mannerisms, Castiel was at times reminded of Ananiel. The fallen Watcher.

_Anna_.

Yet another sibling lost because of him. Castiel often found himself wishing that he could have saved her. They'd always been so disconcertingly alike, and there was a time when he would have given anything to be just like his elder sister. But then she'd torn out her grace and abandoned them all for the promise of free will. Even after turning her in, Castiel knew they were still so much more alike than he cared to admit.

He'd fallen to fight for humanity, Anna fell to become humanity. Ultimately though, they both fell in love with what they found.

Looking back on himself in those days, Castiel couldn't help but think how utterly _young_ he'd been, which of course was absurd. Seven years stood between that version of himself and the Castiel of now, but such an extent of time was nothing compared to the lifespan of an angel. Seven years was a millisecond, less even, and yet how much had he changed over that brief course of time?

He was drawn out of his dismal thoughts by the sight of Hael beckoning him over. "Join us!" she called to him, and there was a carefree smile splitting her face that belied all the tribulation she'd had to endure this past year.

Hael was happy, and for that, Castiel was glad. "Tomorrow," he promised, intending to retire to his cabin.

" _Cassie_!" rang the sudden excited shriek as Aubrey scrambled out of Hael's arms with complete lack of grace and came running to assault him with a hug. "Cassie! Cassie! Cassie!"

She collided with Castiel's legs and threw her arms around him happily.

When they'd found her a little over six months ago in an open quarantine zone, Aubrey wouldn't speak. Nobody was ever quite sure what she had seen or the extent of what she'd been through, but the child was mute for the better part of two months after they'd taken her in. Castiel remembered carrying her over fifty miles that day. He remembered the Croats nearly decimating them, being covered in sweat and dirt and too much of his own blood, and then hauling aside the fallen sheetrock to scavenge and seeing her there. He remembered being terrified out of his mind and not knowing what the hell to do as this child stared up at him silently, huddled against the dirty floorboards, and him thinking she was too small, _too fucking small_ , to be put through such hell. He'd gathered her into his arms without a word. A few miles over, they'd found more children. With their vehicle broken down, the six man crew shepherded their new passengers on foot under the oppressive heat for the remainder of the journey back. Yeager and Irv each carried a child. Sam had one tucked into each side, another boy named Thomas trailing beside him with a two-year-old in his tiny arms. There was only one other girl, Sophie, who saw Meg and instantly reached out her arms with tears in her eyes. Castiel remembered Meg leaving the majority of her weapons behind so that she could carry her.

Dean had brought up the front of their slow-moving caravan, leading as well as safeguarding against any threat that arose. It had been a torturous few days and nights, but they had survived.

Nowadays, Aubrey never seemed to _stop_ talking. Castiel again found himself smiling, unable to help it as the child's joyfulness was infective, and he rested a hand over her head and little shoulder. "Hello, Aubrey."

She began babbling to him about her day, with the extreme and insightful enthusiasm as only a small child could manage. Hael had ultimately been the one responsible for the girl's voice returning. Castiel wasn't sure there was any real method of healing involved, since Aubrey's mutism had been emotional and not physical, but Hael had immediately taken to her. The pair bonded over their mutual disability, as Hael rarely spoke herself in those earlier days, since she knew so little English.

Somehow, they'd developed their own way of communication, one that eventually lead to Aubrey saying her first word ever at Camp Chitaqua— _Hael_. In time, that bond allowed Hael to become less introverted and not so timid with her surroundings and peers. She grew more vocal, learned and adapted quickly to not only Aubrey's speech patterns, but those of an adult's. The marvel stretched both ways, too, because Aubrey was becoming increasingly fluent in Enochian. They'd taught each other, showing one another how to speak, what to say, how to live in the world again.

_Esezomi_ , Aubrey called Hael. Castiel remembered the angel teaching it to her, both of them sitting cross-legged and opposite each other, one tiny hand pressed up against the palm of the young vessel. Sounding out the word, expressions lighting up into smiles as it was spoken successfully and with utmost sincerity. _Dearest friend_.

Hael loved Aubrey, and Aubrey positively adored Hael. They were inseparable now, their companionship profoundly touching.

"You're still _it_ , Aubrey!" Sophie called, bouncing in her sandals and showing off a megawatt smile.

Aubrey was dashing off again, launching herself into the mob of other children, and Hael laughed helplessly at their antics, moving to stand beside Castiel. The effervescent group wondered after her and Hael assured them she'd join in again soon.

Turning then, much of the previous joy dissolved from her face and she looked on her sibling with somber eyes, reading his mood as though he were a book. "There were more dead today, weren't there?"

Castiel merely nodded, his lips forming a grim line.

Hael lowered her eyes and bowed her head, the gesture as much a measure of respect and acknowledgement of the loss as it was a moment to gather her composure. When she looked back to him, her expression was heavy. "Do you think it was Bartholomew?" she asked softly, dreading the answer and yet needing to know.

Her brother's quiet anger was palpable. "Yes."

Hael felt it, too, unable to quash that inborn, vengeful ire that called out for wrath. "Something must be done," she reflected gravely.

Castiel shook his head, frustration apparent. "He's either blocking me, or is nowhere to be found. What else can I do?"

Hael searched his face, bright eyes seeking the words he was always so reluctant to say. She sought his counsel, respected his decisions, and generally looked up to him as a brother. He was a lighthouse to her in many ways, but his adversity to sharing his own internal trials with her was always worrisome. "Let it go?" she offered quietly.

Castiel stared at her as though she'd suggested something unthinkable. "What?"

Her fingers closed gently over his arm in a gesture of comfort. "You are human, brother. I can see how little sleep you get. You've fought enough for a lifetime." Hael granted him a brittle smile, one that faltered at the edges because she _knew_ none of this was easy. _Heaven_ , she knew. "Play with us, or go to your lover. Your friends. Be _happy_ , if only for today. Forget just this once about the Fall and what the world has become."

Castiel regarded her, deeply moved by the words despite that he felt he had no right to what they promised. He shook his head, knowing such things were futile. "I can't be happy, Hael. Not doing nothing. Not while angels are still dying."

Hael's smile became bittersweet. "That is why we follow you, you know."

As well as herself, she spoke of the other angels at the camp, of the ones who had died for Castiel during the War, who would die for him still. So many of them were ready to serve as he served, to sacrifice for his cause. Hael willed this knowledge into him, to uplift him. To comfort him, as he had once for her. Too long he'd existed as an island; it was time he knew how valued his leadership was.

Castiel took her efforts gratefully to heart, his eyes softening in what was the beginnings of a smile. It reflected admiration and sadness back at her, the fleeting relief in his posture less onerous now. Reaching out, Castiel grasped her gently by the shoulder and drew her in to press his lips over her forehead. " _Iasnovih_ , sister," he murmured in parting.

Hael felt peace in the familial gesture. She merely smiled at him in answer, watching him go.

"Castiel," she eventually called after his retreating back. When he turned, Hael said, "I would like to visit the Grand Canyon one day." Her head canted a bit, almost a mirror image of himself. It took a peculiar sort of courage to admit such a thing aloud, that she had a dream for the future. Somehow, though, she knew she could trust such a confession to him. "Would you come with me, if I did?"

Castiel nodded. "One day, Hael. I would go with you, yes."

Hael's beatific smile at that was lovely. She hurried back to the children then, immediately embraced by them and scaled like a tree as they piled onto her. Aubrey played with her long hair, chattering merrily in her ear as Hael lead them towards the mess hall for lunch.

_Go to your lover._

Hael's words rang in his head, reminding him of his original objective. Castiel angled back towards the direction of his cabin, the thought of seeing her again after so long an infinitely pleasant one. As it happened, the walkie on his hip crackled to life then and, before a word was even spoken, he already knew who it was.

" _An angel and a demon walk into a bar. What's the first one say_?"

"Ouch," Castiel replied, as he lifted the walkie to his mouth.

Meg's silky laughter filled the channel. " _Not bad. What are you wearing_?"

"The blood of my enemies."

" _One, if you're serious, that's hot. Two, if you're being a sarcastic little shit, I'm proud of you_."

Amusement colored the smirk that Castiel wore. "Good to know."

The line crackled idly for a moment. " _You're not going to tell me, are you_?"

"No."

" _Get your ass home already, would you_?"

_Home_. Castiel briefly put the memory of his slain kin behind him. "I will see you soon, Meg."

He disconnected. Some of his bitterness evaporated and he let out a breath. With renewed resilience and more bounce to his step, Castiel bounded up the wooden stairs of the small porch.

She had a way of… fixing him.

* * *

_man once sang to me_  
 _look at you saving the world on your own_  
 _flying along, I feel I don't belong_  
 _I can't tell right from the wrong_  
 _and you can't see the sky here at night_  
 _so I guess I can't make my way back_

* * *

"We're gonna need to make at least two extra supply runs this week to cover medical needs," Charlie laid out, all business. Gone was the former computer hacker's timidity and skittishness, those traits replaced by a direct, methodical diligence and assertiveness that left her almost unrecognizable. When confronted with a world that did everything to tear you down, a person had to rebuild themselves or die. And since virtually everything technological was now obsolete, Charlie had put forth a disquieting amount of effort into reforging herself a new mold. She looked over the faces of her company as she relayed her sector's stock and reserves. Kevin stood at her side, adding his own two cents when necessary and backing her up if needed, which was rare.

"Toilet paper is running low again, too," he put in.

Dean shook his head. Under his breath, he wondered, "What is it with prophets and toilet paper?"

"Hey, man. You want a chaffed ass, be my guest. Not me."

Five people stood pouring over the maps and lore spread out across the table between them. Documents from the Men of Letters bunker littered the surface as well, but Dean kept the focus on supplies and weapons for this particular gathering.

"Garth, your sector need anything?"

The rawboned hunter shook his head. "Naw, we're still pretty stocked up. Could do with some books, though."

" _Books_?"

"People like to read, Dean. Not saying make a special trip, but if you come across some, more would be nice."

"Garth is right," Kevin said, liking the idea.

Sam and Charlie both nodded their agreement. "And the next run?" asked the latter of the two.

"Working on it," Dean said absently, his tone bordering on impatient. "Once we get a crew lined up, I'll let you all know. Right now we're dealing with some other concerns that take precedence."

Charlie frowned. "Okay, well… med supplies. Sort of a big deal."

"Charlie. I heard you."

"Do these 'other concerns' have anything to do with all the lore you have lying around?" she asked, crossing her arms and eyeing the tabletop pointedly.

"Well, Cas is back now," Sam activated, interjecting so as to avoid any possible arguments. Dean looked like he was gearing towards a camp-wide putdown, his mood about as amicable right now as a damn bear. He may as well have had actual hackles on the back of his neck. Sam went on, addressing the group. "That means more viable manpower. We could take him, Meg, and one of the angels maybe, sometime in the next day or so."

"I could go with," Kevin put in.

Dean shook his head, his tone indicating the decision was final. "Not a chance. I already told you—you're a sentry, not a field scout."

"Whatever," Kevin sighed.

"We good?"

Three various confirmations met his words and Kevin, Garth, and Charlie all took their leave and began filing out of the cabin. Charlie aimed a final look over her shoulder at Dean, saying nothing although the unspoken intent was loud and clear. He met her eyes rigidly, offering nothing in response—unspoken or otherwise.

"Map out the runs sometime tomorrow?" Sam asked, once they were alone.

"Probably won't send anybody out until Friday," Dean vaguely acknowledged, sliding over one of the outlines to his brother. "What day is it even? Sunday?"

"Tuesday," said Sam. "What about Cas and Meg?"

Dean's engrossment of such matters was nonexistent. "We'll worry about Megstiel later. First we deal with this," he said, moving some papers aside to reveal an inscription pertaining to the Knights of Hell.

Sam glanced his way over the plans, wishing his brother would devote more initiative to the weekly missions than to chasing rumors. Castiel and Meg often ran their own show, so it would've been prudent to find out if they had any more missions of their own that week that could interfere with supply runs. "Don't you wanna know what they're doing?"

Dean naturally took his innocuous meaning and turned it sideways. "I never wanna know what those two are doing."

* * *

_but oh my heart was flawed I knew my weakness_  
 _so hold my hand consign me not to darkness_  
 _you can't tempt me if I don't see the day_

* * *

Meg slammed Castiel up against the wall, his shirt already torn open. His back struck the paneling hard and he groaned into her mouth.

"You derive too much pleasure out of throwing me around," he panted when she gave him the chance. He'd barely gotten the words out when she was already back to devouring him, her small hands practically shredding the shirt from him completely.

It was true, she wouldn't even deny it. Call it a demon's shortcoming at the prospect of tossing and angel—former or not—around like a ragdoll. Plus she'd always vowed to get him back for that ring of fire business, and she was still riding high over the fact that he'd played her over the walkie earlier. Little featherduster was becoming a natural. _Gold star!_ "You can take it," Meg hissed against him, biting his lip hard. "And you like it."

"I think you cracked a rib," Castiel muttered, though she was right in that he was her willing victim.

Meg's smile was sharp against his throat, her tongue just as cunning at his pulse. " _Baby_."

Damn it, she _knew_ he hated being called that.

Castiel growled, his hands gripping tight at the back of her thighs and hoisting her up. Meg's legs went avidly around his hips as he swung them around, slamming her into the dent his body had already left behind. She moaned with anticipation, in approval, fingers wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging in.

"Hurry up," she ordered him when he merely started dropping open mouthed kisses across her collarbone and neck. "I haven't seen you all week."

"I missed you, too," he murmured against her skin.

Meg gave his hair a disgruntled yank. "I didn't say that."

Castiel's laughter was deep and warm beside her ear. "Your eagerness was kind of a giveaway."

"Well you _are_ good for sex."

"You missed me."

"Castiel, I swear to—"

His lips were on hers again, abruptly tender and without impatience. They were pliant and gentle against her mouth and Meg had half a mind to punish him for the move, but she was taken so off guard by it that her own fever simmered. At some point, her fingers were back at the base of his skull, curled in his hair, tugging softly. She felt his hand pressing against her neck, his thumb sliding along her jaw, and Meg laid her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. Still beating. Still human. Still so breakable.

Still thudding away for her.

_Belongs to Meg_ , the tempo seemed to spell out.

Castiel leaned into her more fully, leaving her deliciously pinned but in a much different way than before. He made sure to leave no space between them. Her lips were abandoned then, to her disappointment, but the contact was soon replaced when Castiel rested his forehead on hers. His eyes slid shut, and he breathed her in deeply.

"I missed you," he whispered again.

It was a remark so loaded with meaning that Meg couldn't have missed it if she were deliberately trying to. Having her not there was a reminder of what life was like without her. What he'd _become_ without her. It left him more shaken than Castiel dared admit, more than he ever would admit. He felt unbearably transparent, but made no effort to disguise what he wore on his sleeve. No more long missions on his own. No more supply runs without her at his side.

"I know, Grumpy," Meg whispered back, combing dark eyes over him carefully.

"Meg?" His eyes were still shuttered away from her, his brow still drawn together pensively.

"Mmm?"

"Don't ever go away again." It was almost a question, an earnest plea to take care of herself even when he wasn't there, even after he was gone. He needed her not to die. If he could stop it, he would. But he wasn't Superman anymore.

"You're stuck with little old me, Clarence, don't worry. Dug myself in like a tick," she gibed goodnaturedly, curling her nails into his flesh a bit for emphasis. Meg's smile was less saucy than usual, softer at the edges. Her eyes were pure chocolate earth—molten brown shining back at him in the low light of their cabin. "No getting rid of me now."

Castiel's eyes opened, and he stared back at her hungrily. "Good."

* * *

_in a city of devils we live_  
 _I can feel the fire of the city lights burn_  
 _it's hard to find angels in hell_  
 _what if I wanted you here right now_  
 _would you fall in the fire burn me down_

* * *

"The Men of Letters did say that the only thing strong enough to kill a Knight is the weapon used by the archangels to destroy them," Sam muttered, scanning over the parchment in his hand for clues.

"Yeah, well we're gettin' nowhere with this shit," Dean grated, shoving at a stack of books which toppled over onto the floor. "Following dead ends for months when that pompous prick was searching for _decades_. We _have_ a good lead, Sam."

"Yeah, going off the word of Crowley."

Dean began to pace, not unlike a lion in a cage. "He wants the bitch dead as much as we do. And as much as he might be a giant rectal orifice with legs, he wouldn't lie about this."

Sam laughed without humor, shaking his head. " _Some lackey of Crowley's gets wind of a protégé of Abaddon's who claimed knowledge of the First Blade._ Yeah, that doesn't sound shady at all."

"Crowley said Dad nabbed the protégé, and he was _right_." Dean held up their father's journal between them to cement his point, then tossed it angrily across the table at his brother so that it skidded to a stop in front of him. "It says so _right there_ , and there's a code in the margin for one of his storage lockers. We need to get to that unit."

Sam ran a hand over his mouth, sensing with great regret that this was to become toilsome. "Dean, that storage locker is on the other side of the _country_."

Dean circled back around, shaking his head as though it were nothing. "We'll take Cas, demon bitch number two, and a handful of men—whoever's willing, or just the four of us."

Sam was staring at him as though he'd completely lost his mind. "It's a suicide mission."

Dean looked him dead in the eye. "It's the _First Blade_ , Sam. It's _killing_ Abaddon."

The older Winchester's face had taken on the form of a masked thundercloud, banked fury lurking in every harsh line and stark shadow under the muted light. He looked utterly made of stone, and as unfeeling as it, too.

Sam faced the cold bulwark of his brother's temper head on. "Do you realize how many open quarantined zones stand between us and that storage unit? Too fucking many," he retorted, not giving Dean any time to answer. "Or what about looters? Monsters running off the leash with no hunters to regulate them? How about another band of cannibals, because _that_ was fun. Or, hell, Dean—even Abaddon herself. She has demons posted _everywhere_! All up and down the east and west coasts, all over the countryside. How many hives have we found just in a hundred mile radius? I'm really glad this is all so black and white to you, Dean, or did you forget what happened the last time we tried to pull this off?"

Dean's callous stare inevitably went to the patch of cloth over Sam's right eye, a flicker of something akin to guilt buried there until it was replaced by malignant resolve. "Do I gotta repeat myself?" he began in a low, deceptively calm voice. It rose an instant later, transforming into a growl that would have made a lesser man quail. "It's _Abaddon_ , Sam! Take a look around you. The world is in the _toilet_!"

Sam merely stared hopelessly at him, losing most of the fight he had, though not for reasons Dean would assume.

He wasn't afraid of his big brother, never really had been. He was afraid _for_ him.

Sighing deeply and heavily, Sam looked at the one constant in his life while at the same time wondering just where the hell he had gone. "You're gonna get your best friend killed, and you don't even care. You're gonna get _yourself_ killed, and you're gonna get _me_ killed." The younger hunter shook his head, his voice quiet with unspoken accusation. "Which is a weird one-eighty, don't you think?"

Dean bristled at the incriminating overtones, a muscle working in his jaw. "Can we not?"

"Ignoring what you did doesn't make it go away, Dean."

"Really? Because if you stop talking about it, it's not there anymore."

Sam closed his eye, turning away in anger. "Damn it."

Dean spread his hands sardonically wide in response, conceding defeat for the moment. "Well, lemme here it then, Sammy."

Sam rounded on him, obvious hurt meshing with the resentment. "What, how you _lied_ to me? It's not as if that isn't a recurring theme with you. I should at least be used to that."

"I didn't have a choice!"

"I was ready to _die_ , and you tricked me into being possessed by a fucking _monster_."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It was an _angel_ , Sam. Cut the dramatics."

So was Lucifer. Lucifer possessed him. Ruby manipulated him. Azazel put his blood in him against his will. Dean either couldn't or wouldn't understand that—and yet he was the one who was _always_ supposed to understand. They took everything from him that made him _Sam_ , and free will was all he had left. The fact that Dean was blind to that was as devastating as it was unbelievable.

_Cut the dramatics._

"Really?" Sam bit back, quelling the hurt he felt. "Because Cas says he's a monster."

"I don't give a shit what Cas said, it's beside the point," Dean argued scathingly. "I'll find Gadreel and I'll put the son of a bitch down myself. You don't have to worry about that. And you know what, how about you kiss my ass? I don't care if you were _ready_ to die, it wasn't in me to _let you_. So you're damn right, I did what I did. I _saved_ you. I may not think things all the way through, but what I do I do because it's the _right_ thing. I'd do it again."

Sam grimaced, frustration boiling. "And that is the _problem_. This stuff _always_ comes back to bite us, Dean. You _know_ that!"

"Then we'll deal with it when it comes."

His brother shook his head in vehement rejection of such an attitude. "You say that now, but—"

"Yeah, and I'll say it again."

"Dean, _enough_. You _see_? Even when you fuck up, you think what you're doing is worth it! Because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad. But you're _not_!"

Dean clenched his fists and his next words were harsh and angry again. "You know what, Sam, it _is_ worth it because I'm lookin' at you in the face right now. You're alive. If that makes you hate me, so be it. I don't give a shit. I'm _poison_ , and you've always known that, so deal with. People get close to me, they get killed. That's just how it is. And you know what? I _used_ to tell myself that I help more people than I hurt. That I was doing it all for the right reasons. I used to believe that. Now, I just don't care, you're right about that." Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean barreled right over him. "Because putting Abaddon in the ground is _bigger_ than _all_ of us! I've got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an _apocalypse_ hanging over their heads! If I gotta feed some of them into a meat grinder to save the rest, then that's just how it is. It ain't pretty, but that's _war_."

Sam felt his righteous anger spill over out of pure desperation now. "These people count on you, they _trust_ you—"

Dean stared back at him unflinchingly, and Sam thought it was like looking at a stranger. "They trust me to kill the Knight and to save the world. And that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"No… no." Sam had no retort, much less a rebuttal to that. "Something's broken here, Dean. With _you_. With all of this. We just…" He gave a reluctant shake of his head, some of his own fortitude hanging like gossamer from his shoulders. "We don't see eye to eye anymore."

Dean's gaze was cold and flat, his voice carrying all the humanity of a dial tone. "Well, I still have both of mine. Maybe you lost some of your common sense when yours got taken."

Sam blew out a humorless, disbelieving laugh at the mordant dig. He looked away, searching for what he needed to say.

"Listen—"

"Goddamn it, I can't trust you, man. Don't you get it? I want to. I _do_. But tricking me? All this collateral damage you _don't_ care about? I just can't. Not the way I should be able to." His words were frank, but no longer carried the anger and bitterness they had before. Sam was _tired_. Exactly how much so was evident in the tense bow of his heavy shoulders, the worried arc of his brow, and the thin line of his mouth. "I want you to reconsider going through with this. If you don't…? _Yes_ , I'll still go with you. And goddamn it, they will too, because we're all just as out of our fucking minds right now as you are. But…" Sam's eyes were pleading, "just once. Be honest with me? Admit that you didn't save me for _me_. You did it for _you_."

Dean blinked, his scowl one of confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You didn't want to be alone. And you needed another soldier for this war. It all boils down to the fact that you can't stand the thought of being alone. You're willing to do the sacrificing, as long as you're not the one being hurt."

His brother's reaction to that was predictably caustic. "Alright, you wanna be honest, Sam? If the situation were reversed, and I was dying? You'd do the same damn thing. And you _know_ it. So don't think you can sit up on your high horse and point fingers at me, because it's not going to happen."

This was still his operation. This was still his call. If Sam didn't like it, tough shit. Being the boss never got anybody friends, and that was just how it was gonna be.

Sam's next words, however, knocked him back a step.

"No, Dean. I wouldn't."

His brother stared at him, half in horror, which was ironic and sad. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

As Dean physically recoiled, Sam elaborated. "Same circumstances, this isn't about me not wanting to save you. You're my _brother_. I'd do anything for you, Dean. You _know_ that. It's about choice. It's about _free will_. We need to be on equal ground here, and the way you look out for me is consuming and selfish and everything you _are_ hinges on whether I'm alive or dead. Dean, I can't be like that. Same circumstances, I would put your choice before myself even if it killed me. I would rather be miserable and alone than take that away from you. I don't know how you don't understand that. You think us being brothers is a one way street, a cure all, but it isn't. I would die for you, but there's a _line_. Especially now, with all this _shit_ we have to live with. You're right about one thing—this _is_ bigger than us." Sam regarded him with penitence, trying to gauge how this conversation would end, and if it would end peacefully. Dean's expression was unreadable, emotionally devoid, which only had him further on edge. "We have to operate with the entire community in mind, now. They're counting on us."

Dean said nothing for a long time, the seconds ticking by agonizingly slow.

"Well, Sam," he began then, his composure misleading as the cold fury seemed to leave him. "You're in luck."

Sam's face fell as he recognized the signs of his brother shutting down.

"Because like I said," Dean went on dispassionately, "I don't give a shit anymore. All that matters is killing Abaddon. So piss and moan all you want about how I betrayed you, or about this mission. _I._ _Don't_. _Care_." His eyes were blank, his delivery toneless. "The mission stands. In or out, do whatever the hell you want."

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

"You heard what I said. Dismissed."

* * *

_I burned all the good things in Eden_  
 _we were too dumb to run, too dead to die_  
 _and the world stood still_  
 _my mouth was a crib and it was growing lies_  
 _I didn't know what love was on that day_  
 _I'd kill myself to make everybody pay_

* * *

Meg ran her fingertips gently down Castiel's back as he dozed. He was lying on his stomach, face pressed into the crook of his arm over the pillow. She knew he wasn't sleeping, but the waves of exhaustion drifted off of him like smoke. He made a soft noise when she pressed down a little harder over a particularly sore muscle. Her eyes roamed over his skin, falling on the long scar left behind from a machete blade that traversed from one shoulder to the opposite hip. It was finally starting to fade. He'd collected others over the past many months, but this was the worst of it.

All this lattice work of marks and yet she couldn't see the scars where his wings had been. There was just nothing.

Though it took a great deal of her pride to admit it, even to just herself, she missed those wings. Unlike a human, she could see them just as he could see her true face. Powerful, terrifying things. _Beautiful_ things. Smoldering embers caught within their nebulous depths, Meg remembered him standing in a graveyard of burnt out husks, having just smote an entire horde of demons. She remembered being utterly incapable of looking away from the insurmountable and deadly beauty of those arching wings, furling at his back. Transcendental power had crackled around him in reply to her errant darkness, while she saw just how ashen their feathers were from all those sieges on harrow Hell.

Did she ever miss them.

"Nothing here anymore but flesh and bone, Clarence," Meg said quietly, the name somehow all the more accurate now.

Castiel breathed in deeply, saying nothing for a long time. Slowly then, rising up on his elbows and then his side, Meg felt his arm slip around her waist to pull her back against his chest. He was always so clingy when they were in bed, especially after they'd had sex. So irrationally desperate to be close to her and assure himself that she was very real and not going anywhere. Terrified that, if he woke up, she might be gone or it have all been a dream. That she'd be dead again.

Castiel may have said that he wouldn't keep her here if she chose to leave, but Meg would've bet the hellfarm that he would have followed her.

"Missed me, huh?" she needled goodnaturedly.

"Mm. I told you I did," he muttered back, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. He nuzzled the soft skin there, the fingers of his hand drawing tired patterns over her hip. Meg recognized the shapes, knowing that, if they were drawn in blood, they could bind and trap her. Payback, she supposed, for the time she once drew a sigil on his chest with mayonnaise while he slept. Castiel hadn't found it as funny as she did.

Meg twisted around in his arms so that she could look at him. "You know, I'm pissed at you." Castiel didn't seem concerned at all, which only caused her scowl to deepen. "Going on runs for Kevin and Garth is like being back on the rack. Just so you know."

"How terrible for you."

Her growl was more endearing than frightful. "What about you? Anymore halos at the camp?"

Castiel's gaze drifted away from hers. "No," he said quietly. Well, she knew what that meant. He diverted the topic impressively. "Any trouble while I was gone?"

"Your frat brothers behaved themselves," Meg assured him.

Sometimes having angels at the camp was a real asset, but there were times when such things backfired enormously. After all, throwing a bunch of supercharged egos into a confined space was about as well-advised as one might expect. The week before Castiel had left, a dispute had arisen between two male angels, each from separate factions. For _hours_ , he'd mediated between the two—Meg catching enough pieces of the Enochian conversation to know that it would not end pretty.

Predictably, a fight had broken out not long after, which resulted in Castiel putting a blade between the ribs of the aggressor. With that threat nullified, he'd turned on the other then, spelling out in no uncertain terms that fighting in the camp would not be tolerated. Castiel wanted to save his family, but if it came down to it, he couldn't put the human cohabitants at risk for the sake of loose cannons. And while he may have had the mortal stench of humanity afflicting him now, Castiel was still very much the alpha and arbiter among the angels. No one ever challenged him after that day.

He was also aware that the only other angel whose company Meg actually enjoyed was Hael's. Their relationship was… strange, and somewhat endearing.

* * *

" _This dark thing… she is a demon," Hael said upon their first encounter, considering the creature before her with an odd measure of curiosity and bewilderment. She looked back at Castiel once more._ Demon _, her eyes seemed again to tell him, wondering if he might be confused._

" _Meg is my friend, Hael. She saved my life. You can trust her."_

_Hael looked uncertain, and perhaps a little like she thought her brother was insane. But then she'd stunned the both of them._

" _Then she is my friend, too."_

_Meg's reaction to that was predictably anticlimactic. "Yay. An angel gal pal," she deadpanned, but it was sincere in a way that surprised him. Maybe even surprised herself._

* * *

The walkie beside the bed crackled to life suddenly, interrupting the halcyon quiet that hung communally between them. That particular one only ever utilized the private channel shared between the brothers and Castiel, and so it came as an inconvenient surprise that demanded his attention. It was supposed to be an emergency line, although Dean frequently liked to abuse it whenever he felt the need. " _Hey. Iceman_ ," came the predictable voice of the oldest Winchester, although the tone was clipped and dripping with displeasure. " _Put some pants on and get over here for a mission briefing_."

Oh, superb. Dean was pissed about something and unapologetically prepared to be a hostile pain in the ass.

Castiel groaned, shutting his eyes in irritation.

"Oh, look. Your mother's calling," Meg snipped.

Detangling himself from his companion, Castiel rolled over and plucked the walkie from the small stand with a little more force than required. "I'm busy, Dean."

" _Yeah, I don't really care. Tell your demon girlfriend she can play with your angel blade later, we've got more important things right now_."

"Whatever it is, it can wait," Castiel argued. "I've just returned from my own _things_. I haven't slept in over thirty-six hours, I'm hungry, and you're annoying me."

" _Hear that? That's the sound of my invisible violin_."

Castiel's face scrunched up in agitated bewilderment. " _What_?"

" _It's an expression, dumbass. It means I couldn't give two shits_."

"Well, we're in agreement, then."

" _Castiel, so help me, if you don't_ —"

The walkie was tossed away to the other side of the room, clattering against the wall loudly. Castiel sank back into the pillows with a surly growl, running his hands over his face in exasperation. "What crawled up his ass?" Meg chimed mordantly beside him.

"I don't know," Castiel muttered from beneath his hands, not even addressing the idiom.

He looked so completely human in that moment, and Meg realized then how often she forgot that he was. She skirted her nails lightly across his ribs, where she knew he was sensitive. "Want me to kick his ass?" He flinched a little under her ministrations, shying away from them. Meg's fingers chased him. " _Please_ let me kick his ass?"

His breath came out in a short huff of laughter, hand snatching at hers. "Meg."

She watched him as he sat up, muscles bunching in his stomach and shoulders, and her mouth pinched into a thin line at his laughable predictability. "You're going, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm going," he grumbled petulantly—clearly as pissed with himself as he was with Dean.

Meg lounged back into the sheets, dark hair spilling over his pillow as a consummate reminder of what he was leaving behind. "You know, your being a windup toy would be adorable if it weren't so pathetic." She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, raising her eyebrows at him. Castiel's expression was one of self-loathing and visible desire.

"You needn't say it. I'm well aware."

Meg's smile was broad and saccharine as he regarded her over his shoulder. "But you don't make that grouchy face if I keep it to myself."

Castiel heaved a rankled but affectionate sigh, getting to his feet and pulling on his jeans. "And what will you do?"

"Absolutely nothing for at least another hour. Jealous?"

Castiel threw on a shirt and toed on his boots. "If I said no, would you believe me?" he asked, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair.

Meg merely smirked.

Near the door, he gathered his usual weapons, electing to leave the bow behind. "It wouldn't kill you to pretend."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't," she drawled pleasantly from behind him, stretching out like a cat.

As he reached for his sidearm, Castiel hesitated, observing with grim disconcertion at the way his fingers shook. A restless, almost nauseous buzz settled in the pit of his stomach like an anchor and he frowned, curling them into a brief fist to still the tremors. Shoulders erringly tensed, Castiel shook it off, grabbing the Jericho 941 and tucking it with a little more force than necessary into the holster under his arm. He reached then into the top drawer of the dresser, gripping the bottle of pills there with some measure of relief. He downed several and tucked the remainder into his jacket pocket for later use.

"More poppers?" drifted Meg's voice from the bed.

Castiel wouldn't look at her. "Need something to keep me fast."

"Mm. Thought it was just headaches."

He ignored the unspoken implication there, moving for the door.

"Hey."

When he looked back, Meg was tossing him an apple from the bedside bowl. "Eat something. Nurse's orders."

Castiel gave her a worn smile, catching it deftly. "I'll return soon."

"Try not to cause an apocalypse while you're gone, would you?"

He merely took a large bite out of the apple, offering a wink before the door could close behind him.

* * *

_I'm sinking, then I'm torn in two_  
 _so when you see me come up for air_  
 _don't try to hold me down, just save me now_  
 _feels just like I'm underwater and can barely breathe_  
 _dying in the bed that I have made_  
 _did I bring this to myself?_  
 _can I get out alive?_

* * *

"Fuck you, Winchester!" yelled Risa, throwing something inscrutable and heavy at Dean's head, which he narrowly dodged. It struck the side of his cabin with a loud clamor, knocking some siding loose.

"Yeah, well fuck you, too, Risa!" he hollered after her retreating back. "Do us both a favor and stay the hell away this time!"

Risa stormed furiously past several of the other men who immediately afforded her a wide berth, looking anxiously between the two feuding lovers before hurrying off to avoid any crossfire.

Great. Dean and Risa were at each other's throats again. Which probably meant any briefings would be delayed or cancelled. Which meant Dean had bullied him out of bed with Meg for nothing. Castiel regarded the scene with displeasure, frowning in concern after Risa and subsequently offering Dean a disapproving look as he approached the cabin.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean snapped. "You don't even know what happened."

Castiel remained unimpressed with the virulent welcoming, his expression impassive. "Do I want to?"

Dean rolled his eyes, marching halfways down the steps only to drop down onto one of the last few so that he could sit and scowl outwardly. "She thinks I was with Jane last night."

"Were you?"

Dean's response to that was to glare indignantly.

Castiel merely lifted a skeptical eyebrow, and the hunter turned away from the scrutiny with open derision. "I was in her cabin, but I wasn't… _in her cabin_ ," Dean said, as though that explained everything.

Castiel remained largely critical and unsympathetic. "That was foolish."

"Yeah, well who asked you," muttered Dean, frowning at the air in front of his own face. His anger seemed to have abated, somewhat.

"Where's Sam?" Castiel tried instead, taking up a seat beside him.

"He's pissed at me, too. People never like it when you tell 'em the truth, Cas."

Castiel grunted in a distant but acknowledging way, taking another bite out of his apple and then pulling a face. His body was due for nourishment, but somewhere between his cabin and these steps, his appetite had deserted him. There was a hollowed-out feeling somewhere in the vicinity of his gut, similar to hunger and yet not at all. The mouthful of fruit he swallowed had little taste, and his stomach protested the additional sustenance it didn't want.

"What's with the constipated look?"

"I do not look constipated," Castiel retorted, leveling Dean with a bitchfaced look of indignance. He frowned then at the apple in his hand. "I'm just not hungry," he said, tossing it away. "Why is Sam angry with you?"

"The usual," Dean hedged.

"Gadreel?"

"Of course. And my stupidity in general, apparently."

"Well, you were stupid for the right reasons," Castiel told him, his tone indicating that Dean shouldn't worry about it. After all, he could relate. Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons was a common inadequacy he displayed, a little _too_ often. Castiel wasn't even sure that what he did was for any right reason at all. It felt selfish. He didn't care one way or another the semantics, but it was most definitely on the moral fence.

"Whatever," Dean groused, his opinion of his own actions reflecting the aggravation he felt. "I got played."

"I thought I was saving Heaven," Castiel reminded him, the self-deprecating smirk he wore making Dean laugh a little. "I got played, too."

"So we're both a couple of dumbasses, is what you're saying."

Castiel's consideration of that was fatalistically cavalier. "I was going to go with 'trusting,' but yes. We are dumbasses."

Dean snorted. "So you don't think Sam's right?"

"About?"

_About me_. Sam believed he was off the rails—worried constantly over the man he was becoming, the decisions he was making. His brother expected him to make changes, gain _perspective_ , be the man he had been a decade ago. But that wasn't about to happen, because Sam was wrong.

He was not _evil_. Dean wanted only to kill every vile son of a bitch in his path, ruthlessly, and without someone constantly looking over his shoulder. Without needing to give a shit as to whether he was stepping on anybody's feelings. This was 2015. They were _living_ the apocalypse. _Feelings_ were obsolete. And just how many times had those closest to him betrayed him, lied to him, deserted him? Allowing himself to become this brutal war machine had its own advantages, the least of which was effectiveness. It granted him the outlet to express all the pent up hurt, anger, rage, and disappointment that had been brimming beneath the surface for years. _Purge your demons_ , as the saying went. Dean might have been miserable, he might even be heartless, but someone had to be the bad guy. Someone had to get the job done, because that's exactly what this was. It was still a _job_. Abaddon had to die, and Dean would be the one to kill her. If Sam abhorred his methods in doing so, then so be it. The world was now the archetype of _hope lost_ , but someone had to avenge it. _Damn right_ he was off the rails.

"Let's just say he thinks my methods could use some… adjusting."

Castiel shrugged, leaning back against the steps. His tone grew quiet. "We're all going to die bloody. Why postpone the inevitable?"

"Jesus, you're a cynic these days," Dean chuckled.

"I'm a realist, Dean."

It had been so long since he and Cas talked like this. And it was a relief to know that he wasn't the only one on grounds still with a brain. Although, admittedly, Dean was well aware how deliberately vague he was being. A part of him recognized the villainy of it—using Castiel's loyalty to his own advantage. That same part of him was ignored as easily as he'd dismissed Sam's earlier cautioning. "Well, it's refreshing to see that the stick has been removed from your ass. At least that tiny terror is good for something."

"Meg's good for a lot of things."

"That's fucking gross."

"Dean, shut up."

Dean looked sharply at his friend, bristling. "Spare me the white knight bullshit, Cas—"

Castiel wore a strange expression, staring ahead sightlessly. " _Shh_."

He'd gone utterly still, his eyes seeming to be a darker blue than usual, almost like a darkening sky before a storm rolled in. They flickered uncertainly, and Castiel seemed to be straining for something.

He was _listening_ , Dean realized, now comprehending what was happening. "What? What do you hear?"

Castiel grimaced, a protest of pain hissing between his gritted teeth as the sensation of a hundred invisible needles lanced through his skull. It left his ears ringing, his eyes seeing spots, and his body shaken. But when it passed, he looked up sharply, his eyes wide. The aftershocks of the splitting headache were forgotten at the voice still echoing in his brain.

"Cas? What is it?"

Castiel felt a rush of visceral emotion go through him, suddenly very aware of his heart pounding hard against his borrowed ribcage. A feeling like someone had just poured ice water down his back assaulted him. "Not what, _who_." He turned to his friend, alarmed. "It's Ezekiel."

Dean stared at him in shock. "Wh— _Ezekiel_? But—"

"The _real_ Ezekiel. He's alive."

Castiel shot to his feet and Dean scrambled after him, "Whoa, whoa, hang on! Where the hell is he?"

Castiel was already on the move. "About ten miles out."

"How do you know this isn't some kind of trap?"

"It's _Ezekiel_ ," Cas reminded him with urgency, as though the mere suggestion were unthinkable. Time was imperative right now, and Dean was wasting it with such questions. A painful throbbing was building steadily in his temples and there was a vague buzzing in his ears. He bore down hard, willing the discomfort away so that he could focus on what needed to be done. "I meant what I said to you—he's to be trusted. His call was one of distress, I think he may be hurt. I'm going for him."

" _Shit_ ," said Dean, throwing caution to the wind. He fell into step beside Castiel, matching his pace. "Alright, well let's pony up."

Castiel's head jerked around to stare at him. "What?"

"Yeah, I'm coming with you."

Castiel didn't even have a chance to question the matter before he was running right into somebody else, oblivious to what was in front of him. He looked down in surprise to see Meg staring up at him with a questioning look.

"Where's the fire?" she inquired of his panic-stricken demeanor. The beginnings of worry converged in her dark eyes as they searched his face, demanding answers out of him.

Castiel regarded her with penitence, starting forward again. "I'm sorry, Meg, I have to go."

"Angel SOS," said Dean dismissively by way of explanation, brushing past her.

"Oh, look at that. Already dressed and ready," Meg volleyed back airily, and she too fell into step beside him.

Castiel though stopped immediately, putting a staying hand over her shoulder. "No. Meg, you need to stay here. _Please_ ," he appealed to her affronted expression, growing very serious. "I don't know how he will react to a demon. He will listen to me, but I'm not certain how injured he is, and he may react on instinct." It was an inborn defense mechanism in angels when gravely wounded, that their grace strike out against anything it perceived as a threat, no matter how banal. The sense of anxiety was like a living thing growing inside him, and Castiel willed her to understand. "He could kill you, Meg."

Oh, but she knew all too well that fear he harbored. More than he would ever realize. Than he could ever remember. More importantly, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to say no to him anymore. Castiel would ask her to jump, and Meg's mouth would wonder 'how high?' before she could stop it.

Her face had taken on a clouded disfavor, but it softened then and she gave a reluctant, understanding nod. "Fine. But you owe me, Castiel."

Dean observed the exchange with a mounting cluster of impatience and grudging awareness. He said nothing, allowing them the moment they needed, however brief it was.

Castiel held her eyes for just a second more. "We shouldn't be long," he assured her.

So then why did she feel this incredible pit in the bottom of her stomach? Meg muttered a reply, trying to quell the worry building in her chest, and watched them go.

Not long after the tires of the jeep were spitting gravel and Garth was closing the gate behind them, Meg felt Sam's presence beside her.

"Where's Dean going?"

He sounded uninterested despite his asking, and faintly embittered. Meg frowned, kindred at least where the bitterness was concerned. "Headed out with our broken treetopper. Angel crisis."

She felt Sam's eyes on her, penetrating. "You're not staying behind."

Excellent, so her distress was not only palpable, it was predictable. "Who made you Nostradamus?"

The bite to her retort was almost a physical attack, and Sam snorted. "You're an open book, Meg," he said, confirming what she already knew.

She abandoned the giant hunter to his emoting, something else snagging her attention.

Hael stood anchored and unmoving as a statue, unaware of the children's voices as they prodded and danced around her. Beside her, Aubrey stared up in silent concern at her face, gripping Hael's hand tightly in her own. The angel stared ahead, unseeing as Castiel had been. Her parted lips pressed into a worried frown, anxiety filling her.

An errant darkness seemed to materialize beside her, and Hael snapped out of her daze when it spoke. "Got a sec, pumpkin?"

The familiar sardonic voice brought her a strange measure of relief in that moment. Hael's bright eyes darted to the demon it belonged to, dread gripping her. "Something's wrong."

Heaven's most adorable teenager looked ready to burst at the seams, reflecting the urgency she already felt. "Very," Meg affirmed, speaking quickly. "Your brother's an idiot. How do I fix it?"

"Meg." The angel's tone was deeply worried, beseeching. "Help him. You need to help him." Castiel was distracted, only focused on the one he sought. It left him blind. "Go to him. _Now_."

The quiet ring of holy steel filled the space between them as Hael held up her blade for the demon to take. Meg's resolve was a crushing force, devoid of deviation. Her eyes slicked to an oily black.

"Point me at him."

* * *

_turn off all the lights_  
 _let the morning come_  
 _now there's green light in my eyes_  
 _and my lover on my mind_  
 _everybody sees I love him_

* * *

"We still on track?"

"Yes," Castiel replied stiffly, his grip tightening on the wheel. He was staring straight out the windshield, practically unblinking. "Why did you offer to come with?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked him.

A muscle was working anxiously in Castiel's jaw, his expression unreadable. Every now and then, Dean would notice him listening again, eyes narrowed against the setting sun. "You've made your opinion of keeping angels at the camp quite clear, Dean. Now suddenly you're not only willing, but insistent upon it?" His tone was not accusatory, but the note of suspicion was hard to miss.

Dean sighed. "Look… you told me Ezekiel was a good soldier, and I believe you. We need that right now, and maybe he can undo some of the shit his copycat left us with. And hell, I don't know, maybe I gotta make things right with the guy. All I'm saying is… if there's even the slightest chance he can help us find Gadreel, I want him on the team. And if he's you with batteries like you say, maybe he can even help with Abaddon. We need every good soldier we can get right now." Yeager, Irv, Mathew. Their forces were dwindling almost by the hour, it felt like. _Any_ backup was welcome these days, especially if that backup had the shelf life of an angel and was good at laying down wrath.

"So you want to use him."

"Yeah, I do," Dean said, completely unapologetic. "But that doesn't mean I don't wanna help him."

Castiel frowned at the somewhat evasive tactic. His expression was stormy as he stared out the windshield, and Dean saw a shadow of something almost baleful race across his face, but then it was gone. The hunter opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel silenced whatever he was going to say.

"Make no mistake, Dean. You would die for your brother. I would die for mine as well."

It was a warning wrapped in a question, said with quiet force. It said that Castiel would protect his family, even from a Winchester. It asked, sincerely, that his friend might never let it come to that. Dean sat back in his seat, saying nothing, although no answer was required.

They'd relapsed into more strained silence when suddenly Castiel was slamming on the brakes. " _Mavialqvasb_ ," he seemed to curse, throwing the vehicle into park.

Dean took his cue, hurrying after his friend who was already shoving the driver's door shut behind himself, tearing across the road and into the small deserted town. A haunting cry drew their gazes upwards and there, floating on the breeze, was a large crow circling overhead. Its broad wings were extended, motionless except for the wind that ruffled its black wingtips as it soared high above them. Castiel read the sign for what it was and ignored the dull twinge of envy he felt at the bird's blithe freedom. If scavengers were still scouting the area, it meant there was something here to be found.

Castiel went still, listening.

Dean had an angel blade drawn and ready, in case Ezekiel was not the only angel they found. His face had fallen into stern lines, expression vigilant against the still oppressive heat of the setting sun. "He still alive?"

"It's faint," Castiel murmured. His brow was knit with concentration, his breaths shallow to reduce his body's natural movement. Almost as though he were using it as an antenna he didn't dare readjust. Dean watched him with some measure of fascination, though he still wished his friend had the rest of his bag of tricks, too.

Castiel activated. " _There_ ," he said, abandoning his post and disappearing into a nearby alleyway.

They found the body not far in, slumped over against the crumbling wall. Castiel dropped down beside his brother, barely even registering that Dean was still with him. His hands pressed urgently against the broad shoulders encased beneath the wrinkled suit jacket, trying to rouse the angel into consciousness. "Ezekiel."

Ezekiel's vessel was tall, strong in body only, for his appearance was haggard and broken. There was blood on his clothing and a clear wound torn angrily into his side. His dark skin held a wan shade because of how weak he was, and his chest barely rose in time with his breaths.

"This is the real Ezekiel?" Dean asked from beside him, and Castiel nodded.

"Yes," he said softly, blue eyes combing over the angel's face in concern. Castiel shook him again, careful of his injuries. "Brother?"

Ezekiel began to stir, dark eyes fluttering open. "Castiel…"

"I heard your call. How badly damaged is your vessel?"

Ezekiel made a faint noise of pain, lifting his head. "Too… Too close…" His sonorous voice was pitched low and trembled with the effort it took to speak. A soft resonance weaved through it, the mark of his grace leaking out into the physical world. His chin dipped, head lolling to the side as he began to slip against the brick and mortar.

"Hey, man," Dean said, reaching out to keep him from sliding down again. He exchanged a look of unease with Castiel before turning back to Ezekiel. "How you doin'? Can you stand?" As much as they appeared to be alone, it was never a good idea to remain immobile for long when outside the camp's secure borders.

"I cannot seem to move…"

"It's alright, don't worry. We'll get you outta here."

"Dean, take his arm. I'll lift from this side."

" _Too close_ …"

"He needs a safe environment to heal. We—" Castiel looked up, alarmed. "Dean, you have to go."

The air itself seemed to buzz with some weird electricity then, one that sparked feelings of emergent and pervasive dread. Dean didn't need to hear angel radio to know that something was about to go very wrong.

" _What_?"

"Still here," Ezekiel managed, more urgent. "Killed his followers… more coming… wounded."

" _Dean_ ," Castiel stressed, looking inexplicably murderous.

" _Who's_ here?" barked the hunter, demanding answers to what the fuck was going on.

" _Bartholomew_ is here," Castiel growled, a cold fury taking hold of him. His restraint finally cracked and his temper split wide open. "I can feel him now, on the move. He's injured and unable to block me." His determination was palpable, though still without a clear target as far as Dean could tell. Castiel didn't leave him guessing for long. He propped his brother forward into Dean's arms. "Go. Take him."

"Cas—"

"You heard what I said." Castiel's eyes bored into his with righteous resolve. "Ezekiel has answers that I don't, and you said it yourself—he's _me_ with batteries, and therefore more valuable." He rose sharply, blade in hand, the darkness within him gathering. "I'm going after him."

The contrast was severe. When Castiel had spoken those same words in referring to Ezekiel, they were protective. Familial. When he said them now, it was the polar opposite. This arrangement held a clear threat, a promise of retribution.

" _Cas_."

"Dean, for once in your life, do as I ask!"

The hunter merely held out his hand, impassive. "Keys."

Castiel tossed them over, glad that Dean had not intended to argue. "Don't come for me until he's safe."

* * *

_how many times have I prayed_  
 _that I would get lost along the way_  
 _dream with the feathers of angels stuffed beneath your head_  
 _the regulator's swinging pendulum_

* * *

Castiel pressed his advance as he crept between buildings, trying to balance the conflicting needs for both speed and stealth. He gripped the handle of his blade tight, the surface reflecting the last vestiges of sunlight back at the sky. He strained his limited human senses, scouring the airwaves for any trace, any clue, that would lead him closer to his quarry.

Bartholomew was near, very near. Castiel could _feel_ it, could hear the battered notes ringing in his ears that assured him he was not wrong.

"Look who it is," said a ruined voice, the syllables rasping together in a manner that was disconcerting. "The garrison's own little Icarus."

Castiel tensed, feeling a visceral spike of dark intent arrow through his body. He turned to his left, blue eyes brilliant with suppressed anger, and watched as a long shadow stepped out from the barren threshold of a record store and into the light. "Bartholomew."

The angel was bloody and breathing awkwardly—one of his arms hung off oddly, torn at the socket. The vessel would need repair soon. He stood tall nonetheless, chin raised in superiority so that he could look down his nose at the human before him. "Castiel. I hear you've been looking for me."

The need to do violence to this creature for all the destruction and loss he had caused almost overwhelmed Castiel in that moment. "How many angels have you killed?"

"I gave them a _choice_."

"A choice like you gave Ezekiel?" Castiel couldn't help the smug smirk that ghosted across his features. "I saw what he did to your men. What he's done to _you_."

"More are coming," Bartholomew said with no small measure of surety. "And Ezekiel will be dealt with. I only kill those who say no."

Castiel's regard of that was murderous. "I have heard those words before," he said lowly, edging closer.

Bartholomew's expression was stern, disapproving. "Yes, from Uriel, as I recall. An accomplished soldier, until you and that penitent murdered him."

" _Uriel_ was a follower of _Lucifer_ ," Castiel growled out. "Is that what you are, Bartholomew?"

Sudden, righteous venom colored Bartholomew's words. "What I am is a _visionary_. My goal is to raise our kind back to Heaven and destroy those who stand in my way or refuse to pledge their allegiance to me. You want to know my death toll? The lives I've taken in pursuit of this campaign? _Hundreds_. And how many have _you_? Your hunger for blood far outweighs mine, Castiel. And there are other factions. Others you have to fear than just me."

Castiel met his eyes with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly. "I will stop them, too."

Bartholomew was just another bully in a long line of others he had already dealt with. Uriel. Raphael. Naomi.

"Yes, I think you truly believe that."

The swift arc of Castiel's blade was stopped short as Bartholomew caught him around the throat with his working arm.

"I always admired your tenacity," the angel confessed, as though he were remarking on the color of the sky. Castiel struggled against his grip, the blade falling at their feet. Slowly, excruciatingly, Bartholomew raised his mangled arm. Tendons and bone ground against one another with jarring effort, and the grimace he wore looked disturbingly like a smile. Giving a final twist, the arm slid back into its socket with a sickening crunch. Now, Bartholomew did smile. Rearing back with that same arm, he used it to deliver a hit that sent Castiel sprawling into the dirt at his feet.

The angel kicked the blade away, and it went skidding far out of reach. "Look at you, Castiel, amid the muck. You've become one of the ants. You've fallen further than _any_ of _us_." Bartholomew approached the fallen rebel at a leisurely pace. "Serving humans, lying with demons. Selling yourself at the nearest crossroads." Here, he granted Castiel a disingenuous smile. "But always and forever _earnest_."

Castiel barely had time to register the sight of Meg before she was launching herself onto Bartholomew's back out of nowhere. The angel's startled grunt went unnoticed as her own blade arched high and bore down, piercing flesh and bone just a hairsbreadth away from his vessel's heart. Bartholomew snarled at the pain, barely stopping her hands from pressing the blade any further into his shoulder. Enraged, he then reached up and grabbed her by the back of the neck and hair, twisting to hurl her down hard at the ground. His outcry of pain became a disbelieving laugh when he saw who it was. "And what's this?" he wondered, already knowing the answer and perversely pleased by it.

"Meg!"

Bartholomew lifted a hand which caused an invisible force to pin both of his prey back into the dirt. "It's the demon you've been keeping. I hoped I'd get the chance to meet her face to face." He glanced at his shoulder and the flickering stream of light that stole through the folds of his clothing. "That was impolite." Cold eyes slid menacingly back to Meg. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you, little thing?"

Meg's fiery glare was defiant. "Let me up, you piece of shit, and we'll see who does what to who." Her lips pulled apart in a fierce smile. "You wouldn't be the first angel I've killed. Not even the first one I've killed for him."

Bartholomew smiled, slow and predatory. "She is sort of magnificent, isn't she?" he mused aloud, only half-addressing his brother.

Castiel struggled upright, fury swelling inside him. " _Don't you touch her_."

"Very well, then, I won't." Narrowing his eyes, Bartholomew raised his already outstretched hand, curling his fingers into a spiteful fist. "I'll simply unmake her."

Meg threw her head back in a devastating scream that shook her entire body, eyes snapping to black before they wired shut against the celestial energy that began to tear her apart from the inside.

Castiel shouted in protest, horrified realization washing away his anger as he struggled vainly to reach her.

Meg felt as though her insides were being hollowed out. The beast inside her instinctually recoiled in wild desperation, slamming against the walls of her host in search of escape. Another thunderclap of soundless energy knifed through her in echo, again and again. She writhed under a suffering insurmountable, feeling her darkness being scorched out under the onslaught. She vaguely heard Castiel pleading in a rushed, higher voice that didn't even seem to belong to him. Meg crumpled in on herself and continued to scream, unable to achieve anything else, her demon voice merging with her body's as the earth spun around her.

" _Stop_!" Castiel's thundering exclamation would have shook the foundations of every building on the block if he'd still been an angel. Their eyes met, staunch horror reflected in his while the onyx surface of hers remained pools of anguish. He seethed, panicking, losing his mind. Willing her torment to stop even though he could do nothing for her or himself.

Bartholomew left Meg to writhing in pain on the ground, considering them both in a falsely lamenting way. " _For they no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved. No sooner they sighed but they asked one another the reason, and so sought the remedy. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will die together_ ," he recited mockingly. The bastardized Shakespearean verse seemed to amuse him, and Bartholomew shook his head. "You want to know the definition of irony, Castiel? Sacrificing everything for the very thing designed to destroy you."

The words struck him, moved inside him as a living entity as Castiel stared helplessly at her.

"You can't save her. Part of you knows it."

Aching sorrow slowly gave way to solemn veneration, to desperate determination. Castiel's eyes became hard, his expression intense. The fury returned in force, consuming him. Bolstering him. An arctic resilience spread throughout his fortitude as he began to fight against the angelic hold over him.

" _No_."

Bartholomew stared in stunned dismay as his mortal brother began to stir. _Impossible_. "How in hell…?"

Castiel growled with exertion, rising higher and higher until he was nearly to his feet. Bartholomew struck him back down, indignant. He staggered hard, dropping to one knee, hand braced on the ground to steady himself. A small stream of blood fell from his mouth.

"You are impressive, even in this broken form," Bartholomew remarked, coming to tower over him. "And so finally it's come to this. For months you've sought me out, and now here I am. Tell me, little brother… have you come to offer me a place?"

"No." Castiel spit out more blood, wiping it from his face with the back of his hand. "I came here to kill you."

Bartholomew tossed his head back and laughed. "What, no turning the other cheek, even after all this? I'm surprised at you." He drew back and delivered a stunning kick to Castiel's ribs, knocking him completely down.

Castiel felt something break, and he was unable to bite back the yell that clawed its way up his throat. His arms cinched around his protesting torso as he lie there, trying to catch his breath. Above him, Bartholomew was loosening his vessel's necktie in jerking motions.

"You always thought you were better than me. Well, look at you now, down in the dirt." The bitter animosity in his voice contrasted sharply with his relaxed pose, revealing the rivalry there. "I'm going to take it out your ass, Castiel."

Determinedly, impossibly, Castiel worked himself partway up after lying there for several moments. He cradled his side with one arm, and Bartholomew noticed the sudden sight of the pistol in Castiel's other hand and laughed harder, his tone enormously condescending.

"And what are you gonna do with _that_ , other than piss me off?" he challenged.

Faster than Bartholomew would have ever given the battered human credit, Castiel spun and rose quickly, firing off round after round rapid-fire into the angel's vessel. With each shot, Castiel advanced, Bartholomew stumbling slightly under the hits—thrown just enough off guard. When the magazine clicked empty, before Bartholomew could recover and realize that, in getting to his feet, Castiel had taken up the demon's dropped blade, that blade was being driven up into his heart. Once. Twice. And again.

Bartholomew roared in pain as light exploded outwards from his vessel and the fatal hit. Castiel twisted the blade hard, the dying knell of grace reflected in the unforgiving blue of his eyes. He withdrew it then with a shove, allowing Bartholomew's dead corpse to fall to the ground.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the echo of death hanging in the air. Then, anger mostly vanquished, adrenaline dissipating, Castiel began to sway.

The pain came back like a tidal wave force, bringing him to his knees. Achingly, he began to crawl his way over to Meg, who was barely moving. Her screams had ceased, but he needed to know she was all right. "Meg. _Meg_ ," he tried again, when she didn't respond. His fingers slid over her face, cupping her jaw, despairing at the heat he felt there. Her eyelids fluttered, a tormented sound spilling past her lips.

"Still kicking," she managed in the barest whisper. Her eyes were still glazed over black, and they stared up dazedly at the sky half-mast.

A sigh of gut-wrenching relief broke out of him, and Castiel stared at her in pained disbelief. "Why did you ever come?" There was benediction and aching sorrow wrapped around every syllable, and if he didn't feel as though his body was about to split in two, Castiel thought he would have kissed her.

Meg closed her eyes tight as she rode out another wave of residual pain. When she opened them again, they were normal once more. "Hael heard the angel chatter and that Big Bad Bart was still in the area. Knowing you…" she trailed off, lashes fluttering again. "Jesus, you look like shit. You're supposed to keep that red stuff on the inside, wonder boy."

Castiel heard an ominous ringing in his ears at that moment, one that set him on high alert even given the state he was in. "Did you bring a vehicle?" he asked urgently.

"Parked a mile off. Didn't want him to hear."

"Can you move?"

Meg made a weak sound of protest at the slightest movement, her insides still feeling as though they were on fire. Her meatsuit was crippled from the damage she'd taken. She would heal, but at the moment she was all but paralyzed. " _Damn it_ ," she hissed, wanting to curl in on herself, though she couldn't even do that.

"We need to go, now."

Painstakingly, Castiel pushed himself up onto his knees, gathering Meg's body into his arms while ignoring her protests. Arms and legs shaking, he got to his feet, biting back a yell at the exertion and fresh agony it brought. He groaned behind his teeth, taking a moment to find his footing. Something was definitely broken.

"Is he dead?" grated Meg as they passed by what remained of Bartholomew.

"Very."

She whimpered pitiably into his chest as she was jostled, trying to disguise it. Castiel grimaced with regret at having to manhandle her while she was still so battered. He moved slow, his movements stilted and each step more agonizing than the last. His breaths came in sharp, painful stabs and the ringing in his ears kept up.

"Stop," Meg breathed out, ready to tear his head off for aggravating his injuries further.

"His followers will have sensed his perishing. They're coming, I can hear them." Castiel's words were disjointed, and his lungs felt like they were going to tear apart with the effort it took to speak and keep going. His heart pounded behind his broken ribs, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his starved muscles. His head throbbed relentlessly, the steps he took passing like broken glass.

Ezekiel had killed a good majority, yes, but there were still others—too many others, although _one_ right now was even more than he could handle.

Castiel made a noise of frustration as Meg slipped. Determined, he hefted her back up, grunting as arrows of pain tore into him from every angle. They'd made it a fifth of the way already, he could get her the remaining distance. Only four thousand more feet to go. He could do it. He had to, or she would die. They both would die.

Twenty-some minutes later, his breaths were coming short and stuttered, labored gasps now adding to the mix as well. Castiel's previous experiences with injury had been nothing like this. Those had been sharp bursts of pain that then disappeared, wiped completely away by the power of Heaven. Nothing at all like this dull ache that grew steadily worse, building up to a crescendo in his head and chest, or like these shudders that slid up and down his frame like waves of rolling heat as his body fought to shred itself in two. Pain was so different as a human, he kept forgetting.

"Take a breather, Atlas," Meg told him, her voice faint, completely hoarse.

"No," Castiel gritted out. "They're too close."

His voice sounded far away, sending chills up her spine. "Stop fucking walking, you'll make yourself worse."

Castiel didn't reply, legs working automatically. But something was wrong. The ringing in his ears was different now. There was a rushing as well, clouding his head and making his thoughts tangle in a disorienting fog. He stumbled once, balance deserting him. Wrong, something was wrong. His vision swam, darkening at the edges. Just another two thousand feet. Just a little more.

"…Cas…"

His legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees.

The darkness closed in, Meg's voice getting farther and farther away. He'd just started trying to get his feet back under himself again when all strength dissolved from his body and the darkness finally won.

* * *

_feet don't fail me now_  
 _take me to the finish line_  
 _oh my heart it breaks every step that I take_  
 _but I'm hoping at the gates_  
 _they'll tell me that you're mine_

* * *

Awareness slowly filtered back.

Castiel registered pain.

He was weak, too weak. To even open his eyes was too much of a chore and so he lay where he was, unmoving and unresponsive. The ground beneath him was not still at all, though. Wasn't behaving as ground ought to behave. There was a repetitive sort of grumble all around him, his body swayed rhythmically back and forth, sliding a bit against cool leather. There was no sharp stabbing of sunlight against his eyelids, just blessed darkness.

"My boy alive?"

Meg's voice. Frayed at the edges and sounding abused.

"Still kicking," came the disembodied assurance of Sam.

From the front seat, Dean said nothing, but the leather of the wheel creaked under his grip. They'd driven up on the two unconscious forms right as dusk hit. Sam had been afraid to move Castiel because he looked broken in parts that could do him some real damage if displaced the wrong way. Dean just remembered thinking that it took a hell of a lot to make a demon pass out from pain. As Sam had worked on getting Cas safely into the truck without further injury, Dean looked back on the small and unmoving form of Meg, eventually going back for her. He'd hauled her into the backseat, meeting Sam's eyes briefly and knowing by the look in them that he would have made Dean go back either way for her.

She was awake now, already almost halfway healed.

"He's probably dehydrated, too," Sam went on, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder at the two slumped forms in the backseat.

Castiel was coming to. "Where are we?" he muttered groggily.

"Disneyland," Meg offered in reply.

"No, we're not."

"Disneyworld?"

"Meg," the fallen angel groaned with great sufferance. There was something cool and wet on his forehead which, through some headache-inducing thought, he deduced was a washcloth. His head was still swimming and his ribs protested in pain with each bump that passed under the tires and he curled his arms over his torso protectively, too weak to even groan.

"Here," Meg's voice, beside him. Her fingers were threaded at the back of his head, tilting him up a bit, and something cold and wet brushed against his lips.

_Water_.

Castiel drank eagerly, relieved at the refreshing sensation that splashed down his raw throat. When he was done, he peered forward into the dark cab questioningly. "Ezekiel?"

"Safe at the camp, resting," said Dean.

Castiel's head fell back against the seat, relieved. "Good."

"I'm going to kill you," Meg said serenely beside him. Castiel offered a worn out huff in reply, not bothering to put any words together for a response. He felt more cognizant than when he'd first come to, but was still too hurt and exhausted to bother with conversation.

It took him a moment longer to realize that Meg had drawn his head into her lap, her fingers combing soothing lines through his hair. "Meg?" he managed to softly say, the unspoken question hovering in the air between them.

"Already feel better than you look right now," she replied, and though it was dark, he could hear the smile in her voice.

Her other hand was resting over his shoulder and he clumsily grasped it with one of his own, saying nothing more. The remainder of the ride back to camp was spent in silence, neither passenger speaking.

* * *

_I don't want the world to see me_  
 _cause I don't think that they'd understand_  
 _when everything's meant to be broken_  
 _I just want you to know who I am_

* * *

Castiel grimaced, teeth gritted together as she pulled a little too tightly on the wrap. Meg was binding his ribs, the two of them alone in their cabin. Hael and Muriel had done what they could to heal him, but that particular ability was weak in them both after the Fall. And anyways, Castiel had instructed them to focus their efforts on Ezekiel so that he could be well again.

Back to the matter at hand, Castiel had been shot, beaten, stabbed, and any number of other painful things as both an angel and a human, but at the moment, Meg thought he was behaving like a little girl and told him so. Castiel took a defiant drink out of the bottle of alcohol beside the chair, leveling her with a look.

"I think you enjoy tormenting me," he muttered.

Meg made a small sound in the back of her throat, lips quirking as she raised her thumb and forefinger to indicate just a smidge. "A remnant, I suppose, from the good ol' days of being mortal enemies."

"I hope you fall in a well."

"Oh, but you'll just grip me tight, Lassie."

He narrowed his eyes disparagingly at her. "Do you never stop?"

She was still angry with him for what he'd done today, and it showed in the way she was abusing him with the wrap. "Only when it counts." Meg's grin was positively devious then, her cheeks rounding with the strength of it. "You wanna go another round and finish what we started earlier?" She nudged his ribs affectionately, earning a pained grunt, and pressed into him. "Promise I'll drive."

"Incorrigible," mumbled Castiel, but he smiled.

"You know, torment implies pain of a mental nature. Tormenting you is one of my favorite things. But…" Meg hesitated, frowning down at his bandaged body. "I don't like seeing you like this. In real pain. Makes me angry."

Castiel stared up at her as she hovered attentively, catching her eye. "That's sweet, isn't it," he murmured, half-teasing, half-not.

Meg snorted softly, curling her fingers into his hair at the back of his neck and planting a noisy kiss onto his forehead. She loved it when he got that sassy bite to his words. Whether it was at her expense or not. She was even grateful for it. He knew what it cost her every time she gave up a piece of herself like that. Making light of it always lessened the blow.

"I'm sorry my brother hurt you."

Meg's gaze flitted back to his at the quiet apology. After awhile, she lifted a shoulder indifferently. "Don't sweat it. You kicked his ass and I got to watch. Chalk it up to a day well spent."

"If you say so," he said.

Meg had taken up a cloth after soaking it a bit in the alcohol, dabbing it against the bruises and cuts on his face. "That hurt?"

"A little."

"You could probably just have one of your siblings try and heal you again tomorrow. Make it a joint effort. Maybe they aren't strong enough to magic Bullwinkle a new eye, but they could probably patch up some ribs."

"Ezekiel needs it more than I do. Besides, I prefer it when you touch me."

Meg's gaze slid to his, her smile sly. "Mmm. Mama like."

"You're certainly not my mother. Even if I had one, I don't think…" Castiel trailed off at her sigh, his brow furrowing. "Oh. That was a flirtation."

"You're hopeless."

"I'm learning," he said, a little defensively.

Meg pointed at the bottle of alcohol. "Finish that. Nurse's orders," she drawled lazily, a throwback from earlier.

Castiel obeyed, tipping his head back and downing the remainder. His throat burned hot under its effects, the whiskey doing hellish things to his esophagus. She was going to destroy his liver one day, and cackle beautifully while doing it.

_You want to know the definition of irony, Castiel? Sacrificing everything for the very thing designed to destroy you._

Castiel frowned.

_Just how many sins did she get you to commit, Castiel?_

_But the best part of the story has yet to come. An angel falls in love with a demon._

_Lucifer's most loyal… until the day she met Castiel. Stupid little angel who led her astray._

_She would have become a Knight, if not for you._

_You know… when you said you remembered everything, I thought…_

The constant feeling that something was off or wrong or missing crept back on him. It left him with a strange void, nagging at the back of his thoughts. Castiel knew that something very important was going on, it had to be, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the current ache in his body.

"Meg," he began, somewhat uncertainly. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. "If you knew something that I didn't… you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

Her eyes flew to his, clear surprise reflecting back at him.

"Depends," Meg began heavily, looking like she felt cornered. The façade fell. "If you mean the answer to a jeopardy question, fuck no. Call me competitive, but you're on your own. I'm a sore ass loser, angeldust."

Castiel regarded her waveringly. He looked like maybe he should be amused, and maybe a little like he was. Meg saw his posture relax, tense shoulders slumping some.

"Why do you ask?"

He shook his head, dismissing his concerns. "No real reason at all. Just… thinking out loud."

"How are you feeling now? Good and ready to take on a monster of about Aubrey's size, should the threat arise?"

The edges of Castiel's mouth softened in the way they hardly ever did but which always made her secretly glad. "I'm fine," he confirmed.

Meg narrowed her eyes, mouth pinching into a little line. "Uh huh. Pants off."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at her. "I don't know if I'm that fine."

Meg snorted. "Just do it, idiot. And come with me."

A few short minutes later, Meg had a bathful of steaming water ready for him. She rooted around in the cabinet nearby to see if they had any epsom salts on hand.

"What is this?" Castiel wondered.

"It's a _bath_ , Clarence," she said snippily. "I know you're not that dense. _Yes_ , here we go." She'd drawn out a small bag of something that looked like salt from the small cabinet next to the tub.

"No, I know that. I just don't understand why you've run one."

Meg stared at him. "You've never taken a bath before?"

"No, I've always showered. Except for the mandatory sponge baths at the hospital, but I don't think those count, do they?"

"Definitely not. They were fun, though," Meg smiled, fond remembrance making her dark eyes glitter in the low light of the room. "Sexy."

Castiel snorted, regarding the water dubiously as Meg poured in a large amount of the bag's contents. "I don't remember them being sexy."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?"

Something in her tone was belligerent. Most of all, he thought, sad. He stared at the back of her head, not sure how to respond. Meg didn't give him the chance anyway.

"Get in," she said.

She was suddenly reaching for the surface of the water then and, on instinct, Castiel was snatching her hand back in alarm, concern flooding his features. _Don't touch it_ , his eyes seemed to scream at her, as though he thought she'd temporarily lost her mind.

Her hackles settled when she realized the reason for his physical outburst. "It's not really salt, Cas. It's fine."

"Oh," he said, feeling foolish. He watched her reach into the water, sloshing it around to mix its contents. Compliantly, he stepped in, though he was hesitant to submerge himself. "Won't it ruin the binding?" he asked, indicating the wrap still around his ribs.

"Waterproof. Just get in the damn tub."

Castiel sighed, the whole thing feeling strangely intimate. He lowered himself down into the water, a rush of heat immediately enveloping him. Every muscle in his body seemed to exhale a long, tremulous note of relief at the sensation. Castiel made a soft, wondering noise, immensely pleased with the result.

Meg regarded him with a decent measure of amusement, her lips tugging apart at his clear enthusiasm. "Lean back."

He obeyed, certain that it couldn't get any better, and then it did. The water level swallowed his shoulders, cocooning him in warm respite. It felt like a thousand fingers were caressing the aches and pains away he'd collected over not only the day, but the past several weeks. He let out a long sigh, his eyes falling closed.

"What is the purpose of these… fake salts?"

"Epsom salt. It's really a mineral compound of magnesium and sulfate. It has about a thousand different uses, but it's especially good for relieving pain and muscle aches. It eases stress and gets rid of toxins, too. Reduces inflammation of injuries, helps with migraines. Things like that. I don't know how much of this stuff is left in the world, though, so… use it sparingly."

Castiel was looking at her strangely, like he wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Thank you," he said finally, as though he were greatly surprised, though not unpleasantly so. Like he was touched she would go to such lengths for him. "For doing this, for finding these."

Meg cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the transparent gratitude. "Yeah, well. I didn't listen when you told me to stay put, so I figured I owed you this time. You can thank me for it later."

"I will," he replied, his expression unexpectedly heated. Blue eyes drank her in, sliding over her features intensely.

On impulse, he reached out, some water spilling over the side of the tub and down her neck as he cupped her face. Castiel leaned over the edge and kissed her.

The press of his lips against hers was just another reminder to her of how real and alive he was and Meg found herself sighing softly into him as she returned the intimacy. Castiel decided that he could stay like this forever, trapped in the spell she'd cast over him. Without thinking, without doubting the reason, he bent his head to the hidden place just below her ear, whispering every thought. Wanting her to know that, because of her, he could forget the damage he'd wrought, the world as it was, and how he felt less and less like himself each day. Meg put him at ease, at peace.

Even while he felt like a shadow trapped between shafts of light, splintered as a mast in a storm, there was always a part of him that settled when she was near. Because here, in the arms of this fallen woman, Castiel knew he was home. That he had been right all along, and that she was the anchor he needed.

Meg murmured something glib and frivolous against him, nonsensical and for no other reason than to draw a reaction out of him. And when he laughed, she sighed, knowing he would be there in the morning; solid, unwavering, and constant, so unlike everything else in their world. So unlike before.

She still had no idea what would happen if she told him. If he knew.

The thought terrified and dismayed her. Perhaps there was some small amount of exhilaration to it all, but mostly, grievously, it reminded her that there was a part of Castiel she would never get back. A part of him that would always be missing.

Meg vowed that she would hold tight to what pieces she did have.

* * *

_cause you're a hard soul to save_  
 _with an ocean in the way_  
 _but I'll get around it_  
 _I'll get around it_

* * *

Ezekiel's vessel stood taller even than Dean. He was strong, quietly commanding in appearance, but with an infinitely temperate air of serenity. His eyes were sage, benign. He listened when spoken to, and everything about his demeanor and how he conducted his vessel exuded a docile patience that was heartening.

Over the past week, the camp's commander had been keeping subtle tabs on the angel's recovery. When there were no missions, no things to kill, or whenever Sam was giving him the cold shoulder, Dean would be here, watching over the angel whose name he'd spoken a hundred times, yet never really knew. He had not lied to Castiel about his intentions. Dean wanted very much to have another _deus ex machina_ in their pocket again, one who could go into the field, an angel who was not only willing to fight but was proficient at it, one that could be trusted. But there was more to his motivations than the obvious convenience of it all.

_Ezekiel. He's a good soldier_ , Castiel had told him. For so long, Dean had thought Gadreel to be this noble, steadfast warrior his friend described. They had fought together, shared concerns with one another. Then, when Gadreel turned coat… everything fell apart. And so there was a part of him, some small moral remnant, that needed to make things right with the real Ezekiel. Dean needed that person back. He needed to know he wasn't completely _wrong_. That if Gadreel had actually been who he said he was, maybe all this shit they were dealing with now wouldn't have gone so sideways. Maybe things would be different.

Dean knew it didn't make a lick of sense. He knew that. And yet the pervasive need to somehow do right by this angel was as prevalent as it was grudging, a realization made more disconcerting due to the fact that Dean had already flipped the switch on his emotions. He'd refused any and all undertakings that did not pertain to putting the last remaining Knight of Hell six feet under. But here he was.

Looking at Ezekiel now, though, Dean felt a sliver of intimidation. Not because of the imposing yet compassionate presence that provoked respect as easily as it awarded empathy, nor the tall, powerful cut of the vessel's shoulders. It was purely because Dean loathed to be in the presence of something so righteous.

Like Gadreel, it was a stark reminder of how severely he had failed. Dean could stand before Castiel without guilt, without qualms, because Castiel was a mess. The fallen angel was as fucked up as the rest of them, and therefore would never pass or harbor any judgment.

But Ezekiel was _a good soldier_. And a good soldier meant integrity, moral justice, dependability. It meant selflessness and loyalty to the people who followed you. It meant sacrifice. It meant _heart_.

Everything Dean was not these days.

"We should talk, if you're gonna be staying here. I'm gonna call you Zeke. Can I call you Zeke?" Not waiting for an answer. "I'm—"

"Yes, I know who you are, Dean Winchester."

Dean bristled, a wrong feeling coming over him, because this was never a good thing. He braced himself for the revulsion, the distasteful smug arrogance. Things that knew of Dean Winchester seldom had good things to say of him, and so Dean allowed his expectations to plummet. _What was one more dick angel, anyways_? A sarcastic retort was ready and waiting on his lips for whatever punk ass remark was on its way.

Instead, Ezekiel held out a cordial hand. "It is a great honor to finally meet you."

Dean stared, dumbstruck, first at the proffered hand and then back at the benevolent expression it was paired with. Stiffly, the hunter shook the angel's hand in greeting, the suspicion never quite falling away until Ezekiel spoke again, deeply somber.

"I am… so very sorry." Dark eyes assured him that the sincerity there was absolutely genuine. "It should have been myself. The one to heal your brother."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, still not quite sure what to think.

"I heard your call," Ezekiel insisted, "but could not reach you in time. I've been trying to find Sam ever since. I regret that it took so long."

Dean reflected quietly, the angel saying nothing more. A fresh, indeterminate resolve bolstered his conviction, something terrible like hope edging at the surface of his disposition. The question that had been burning inside him since he first heard the words _Ezekiel is alive_ finally poured off his tongue and past his defenses. "Do you think you can find Gadreel?"

Ezekiel granted him with a solemn, obliging nod. "I will try. You have my word, Dean. And you have my help."

* * *

_hey brother_  
 _there's an endless road to rediscover_  
 _do you still believe in one another?_  
 _what if I'm far from home?_  
 _oh, brother I will hear you call_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS
> 
> Enochian:
> 
> "Etharzi!" / Peace, be calm!
> 
> "Monasci?" / Your name?
> 
> "Od ol?" / And you?
> 
> "Blasn cnila." / I will protect my blood.
> 
> "Iasnovih." / Blessed, my thanks.
> 
> "Mavialqvasb." / Hellfire/Damnation.


	5. Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brother was ruthless, Sam thought—a realization he often came to nowadays. Dean was a master, a killing machine. It disturbed him sometimes how those green eyes fell blank, utterly devoid of passion as Dean sliced through a couple of demons or Croats, or even as he delivered a decision that would surely get good men killed in the name of vengeance.  
> It wasn't until recently though that Sam realized how far off the reservation his brother had gone. Dean had always been somewhat short-tempered, but now that he was the hopeless leader of a fearful resistance, he was downright violent. There were pools of blood at his feet, crimson red staining his clothes and the angry edge of the weapon he held, and he looked to be at home in the slaughter.

**MARKED**

_the rib of Adam, the eyes of Eve_   
_the sons of Cain receive no reprieve_   
_waiting for a dead man's shoes_   
_have you heard the latest news?_   
_Lazarus is back from the dead_   
_looking as one would expect_

* * *

21 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"Down!" shouted Dean.

Sam ducked beneath the shotgun barrel, the spray tearing apart the Croat's face that was charging them. Dean tossed the shotgun off to his brother and they switched positions. They weaved in between bodies, shooting, punching, stabbing. Red bloomed around Dean in a wide arc as the he cut through several Croats blocking his way. He felt Sam's shoulder knock against his, the younger Winchester intercepting any ambush that sprouted from their left. Wielding the demon knife and shotgun alternatively, Sam tore a brutal path for them. When the occasional demon cropped up, the knife vanquished its life with a purge of glittering brimstone, tearing through bone and cartilage. Dean utilized a bygone companion; the serrated obsidian edge cleaved through one throat after another, the Purgatory relic making up for its primitiveness with hellish efficiency.

His brother was ruthless, Sam thought—a realization he often came to nowadays. Dean was a master, a killing machine. It disturbed him sometimes how those green eyes fell blank, utterly devoid of passion as Dean sliced through a couple of demons or Croats, or even as he delivered a decision that would surely get good men killed in the name of vengeance.

It wasn't until recently though that Sam realized how far off the reservation his brother had gone. This Dean didn't fuck around anymore, no more quips or jokes. It was war and it was hardening his brother at an alarming rate. Dean had always been somewhat short-tempered, but now that he was the hopeless leader of a fearful resistance, he was downright violent. There were pools of blood at his feet, crimson red staining his clothes and the angry edge of the weapon he held, and he looked to be at home in the slaughter.

They'd made it as far as Ohio, having fortunately dealt only with small delays like vamps or the werewolf pack in Indiana. Then, a mile or so into Canton, a mob of Croats and demon lieutenants had ambushed their vehicle. The place was a festering shithole even before the apocalypse, so it really came as no surprise.

_Honestly, I think the world's gonna end bloody_ , Dean once said, and the notion echoed virulently in his thoughts again now. In a strange way, he was almost comforted by the conflict and carnage. It was what he did best, where he excelled. Dean was a maven of wreckage after all, and when he had a clear outlet for his rage, he was _lethal_ and an absolute terror to behold. The unrelenting violence seemed to welcome him like an old friend.

Not far back, Meg leapt over a crumbling gravestone, twisting in the air to evade a stray machete swipe. She blasted the owner with a face full of rock salt from the sawed-off in her right hand, stabbing blindly with her left to cut off the second demon going for Castiel. An arrow buried itself in the throat of the demon charging for Dean, buying the hunter some time to finish off the Croat he was grappling with. Whirling then, he took off the demon's head and Sam slammed the demon knife up into the body's chest, silencing it for good.

Castiel dodged a wild attack, catching the thing around the neck with the limb of his bow and hauling it back across his path. It staggered and he delivered a hard punch to its face, a boot to its chest that sent it sprawling over a wooden cross at their feet, and then put a holy water tipped arrow through its sternum that pinned it to the cross. The demon hissed and clawed at its chest to dislodge the arrow, and Castiel held it down with the heel of his boot over its throat while he turned the several remaining demons into pin cushions. The demon writhed against the cross, tenuous plumes of smoke curling from the wound on its chest.

Castiel snagged a Croat around the shoulders with his free arm, holding the snapping jaws at bay, then twisted to break its neck. Back in front of him, Sam was already finishing off his trapped quarry with a harsh blow from the demon knife. Castiel pivoted sharply, kicking an extra weapon over to Meg across the dirt. She scooped it up deftly and used the knife as well as her own she still held to scale the back of a nearby Croat like a tree before she buried both into its neck.

Castiel brought his angel blade glittering to light, using both it and the bow's blades to deal critical damage. The holy steel was a gleaming blur under the midday sun. In his left hand, Castiel held the grip of his bow, slicing the air in deadly arcs that soon had the bonded titanium blades dripping with blood. He felt Meg's back graze his own, the assurance of her presence always in the back of his mind as he fought creatures that could now easily kill him. Castiel brought the bow bearing down like an ax in a powerful swing, embedding one of the blades deeply into a Croat's shoulder which severed its subclavian artery. He abandoned the dying infected temporarily, pivoting to grapple with the demon that flung itself at him. Castiel blocked the series of quick attacks it loosed on him, then flipped the angelic blade he still held in his hand so that the weapon's point was aimed downwards. In a swift move, he tore it across the demon's throat, spewing brimstone. His free hand thrust forward to grip it by the back of the neck, flinging the body behind himself and facing the next head on.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg in her element and was once again struck by her dark power like a moth enamored by flame. She had several demons in the opposition writhing at her feet as she mentally tore them apart from the inside, her eyes black and bottomless against the sweltering glare of the sun. Dark waves of hair spilled over her shoulder like a familiar tangle of thorns, errant strands whipping across her face as she fought. Her blades were bloody and as hungry for more as she was, and the sight was as beautiful as it was menacing.

Castiel withdrew his blade from the chest of another demon with a burst of hellfire, then returned it to the holster at his thigh before ducking a manic swing that would have otherwise meant his demise. He rolled over a shoulder, retrieving his waiting bow from its planted position in the dead Croat as he rose back to his feet. With a careless backwards arc, he decapitated the threat to focus on another more pressing one.

At the enormous infected that was barreling towards him, Castiel notched two arrows at once and fired them into its chest. Acting fast as the Croat was barely slowed down, he swung the bow back over his shoulder and drew the machete there instead, slicing into the lumbering, rabid mass. With a roar it caught the grip of the weapon, nearly crushing his fingers as it was wrenched from his hand. Castiel twisted out of the way, scrambling for the pistol holstered under his arm. Before he could pull it free, the thing had him around the throat, meaty arms cinched tight across his shoulders from behind. He might not have been able to become infected, but he sure as hell didn't want that piece of shit sinking its teeth into him. Castiel struggled, muscles straining against the chokehold as it manhandled him across the burial grounds.

"Cas, fucking kill it!"

The angry impatience in Meg's voice barely disguised the panic there, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw her fighting to reach him. " _Meg, shut up_ ," he managed to growl out when he found the air. He wasn't exactly sitting with his thumb up his ass. Castiel gripped at the bands of steel holding him prisoner, kicking his feet up and shoving off a nearby crypt with his boots hard enough to send them both careening backwards. When they collided against another stone fortification, the Croat howled in agony as the twin blades on Castiel's bow bit deeply into its body, causing immediate hemorrhages.

It released him, staggering tumultuously like an oak about to plummet. In its death throes, it forced Castiel back hard into the side of the jeep, causing his teeth to rattle in his skull and stars to spot his vision. As it toppled over in a graceless heap, Castiel sank to one knee, riding out a wave of fiery pain and cradling his still healing ribs that were now protesting in earnest. He ground out a curse between clenched teeth, eyes wired shut and muscles going tense.

"You good?" he heard Meg's voice above him, the concern there barely masked.

"Fine," he said tightly, forcing his feet back under himself. Ignoring the pain, he forewent her proffered hand and recovered the machete from the dirt, squaring his shoulders and ready for round two.

_If he fucking dies because of you_ , Meg had snarled at Dean, leaving the threat open-ended as they'd hit the road. Dean had barely given her a second look—either doubting her ability to back up the words or calling her bluff. Except Meg wasn't bluffing. Castiel was the cause she now served, and if something happened to him she'd set the whole fucking world on fire herself. The stupid dipshit was loyal to a fault and would follow Dean anywhere and it was bound to get him killed. Her too, for that matter, because Castiel wouldn't fall into the fire alone this time. Meg barely recognized this righteous fury that mounted within her, but it was prevalent all the same. So, she'd given Dean fair warning. His lack of heeding it was as maddening as he was, but came as no real surprise.

"Back to the jeep!" the hunter bellowed over the last remaining discharges. He hacked away with the blade from monster land until he got a chance to reload. Whatever approached him—whether it sported black eyes or bloodshot ones—found itself on receiving end of a very gruesome death. Dean _leveled_ all that stood in his way, decimating the enemy force and working his way through demon lieutenants as though they were mere foot soldiers. The Purgatory weapon obeyed his every command like a trusted friend, and he left a mutilated trail in his wake.

Sam shouldered past the few remaining obstacles, swallowing ground back for the jeep. Demons and Croats cropped up around him, getting either a salt round to the face or a demon knife to the throat. His body was beginning to protest at the exertion, but he pressed forward at impossible speeds. Dean had assumed guard at his side when Sam caught up, and there was cold determination writ beneath the blood and grime, beneath the scowl he wore like a badge into battle. "Sam!"

The only reply for a long time was the repetitive firing of Sam's weapon. "Not yet!" his brother shouted back. The demons were too spread; he was determined to wait until they were all on top of him and, even barring that, Meg was still too close. Sam popped the hinge pin open on his shotgun, ejecting the empty shells. Gunpowder stained his hands black, smoke curling from the double barrels.

But Dean was already slicing his way back over and, within seconds, he'd dug the demon bomb out of Sam's belt and hurled it down at the ground with callous resolve.

"Dean, no—!"

Castiel felt as though someone had just clamped a vice around his throat, a sick feeling somersaulting through his chest when he saw what was about to happen. Abandoning his own fight, he seized Meg by the arm and hauled her behind the jeep, slamming her into the rusted metal and throwing his body over hers as death swept around them in a roaring hiss.

A wide arc of arcane power mushroomed out in an explosion of sound, ripping through the mass of possessed bodies with devastating force. The demons were immediately reduced to little more than burnt outlines of brimstone and ash. As the dust settled and the noise faded, Sam's bloodied face twisted in frustration. Looking at his brother though, he swallowed the angry protest begging to spill past his lips because he knew it would be pointless.

Dean plunged his blade into the still spasming body of a half-dead Croat, wrenching it once and removing it with a sickening squelch. He wiped the blood off on the corpse before shouldering the weapon.

"What the hell was _that_?" Castiel demanded as he and Meg appeared from the safety of the jeep. He was clearly indicating the close call, and he looked fucking pissed. Once it was finally safe, he'd pulled back to make sure Meg was unharmed, only to see the fading burns as they began the slow healing process over her scalded flesh. She hadn't been quite quick enough to hide the instinctive fear from him which lay hidden in those dusky eyes and he felt a seething anger claw its way to surface.

"I felt my hair singe, you asshole," the demon put in spitefully. Her baleful glare was dripping with unchecked disdain, and she angrily brushed the cinders from her jacket. "A warning would have been nice!"

"If you wanna stick around to throw a bitch fit, be my guest. Otherwise, get in the jeep. We're moving." Dean's stance looked relaxed and at ease, but in contrast his words cracked like a whip. He stepped over the semi-circle of dead Croats then and through the heavy stench of fire and brimstone sizzling the air, storming past the three of them. "Let's go, Sam."

The command tightened the hunter's voice, all compassion frozen over like ice. This Dean, Sam swallowed as he watched resignedly from where he stood, had no humanity left. Or, if he did, it wasn't towards his own crew or the people possessed. Which was foreign and unsettling, because Sam remembered a time when Dean's passion to protect people was blinding. It was yet another small thing that reminded him that no one came back from the Pit or Purgatory unchanged. No one came back from _war_ unchanged.

Even still, Sam followed after him.

He always would.

* * *

_oh death_   
_won't you spare me over another year_   
_but what is this that I can't see_   
_with ice cold hands taking over me_   
_when God is gone and the devil takes hold_   
_who will have mercy on your soul_

* * *

THREE DAYS PRIOR, CAMP CHITAQUA

"The First Blade?" Castiel appeared skeptical and uneasy as he examined the maps and lore laid out between the small party. He held a drink in his hand and dispassion in his eyes. The low illumination of the cabin threw the occupants' expressions into harsh shadow, lending to the tense atmosphere of the situation. It diverged the table into two opposing sides, each vying between darkness and light. The meeting was exclusive to the foursome, as it had earlier been determined that the general consensus of the camp towards this mission would prove unfavorable as it was so dangerous.

Dean's determination was dark and absolute. "If anything can kill Abaddon, this is it."

Castiel merely grunted acknowledgement, the look of distaste on his face speaking volumes. His jaw clenched at the diverse memories of what he'd seen that very Blade do throughout the ages. The uncharted road set out before them was nothing compared to the Blade itself in terms of risk.

"That's great, Deano." From another corner, Meg's sarcasm spilled over into her words. Her expression was somewhat baleful, her tone faintly insolent. "Do we have anything that can _find_ the First Blade?"

"Got a lead already."

Sam spoke then, addressing the two out of the loop whereas Dean had preferred to hit the road as soon as possible, no questions asked. "Going off our dad's journal, a demon mentioned the First Blade to him. Journal also logged a code alongside the entry for one of our dad's storage lockers," he explained. "Hope is, there's something more in the storage locker."

" _Hope is_?" Meg snorted. "Not a lot to go on, Beanstalk."

Castiel sardonically regarded the map in passing with a dry chuckle. "Our fearless leader is quite adept at turning bread into wine. Should at least prove interesting. I assume this will be a private excursion?"

"Yes," Dean flatly replied. He eyed the drink in his friend's hand disapprovingly. Sure, he bore his own alcoholic demons, but right now wasn't the time to get shitfaced.

"So no need for chloroform and a rope then to acquire added help on this little goose chase. Just the three musketeers and milady riding again." Meg's tone remained clouded with doubt and archly derisive. "Where's the storage locker?" she asked, curiosity nonetheless outweighing aggravation. "Color me dubious, but I don't imagine it's anywhere remotely convenient."

His response was clipped and terse. "Essex."

" _New York_?" Meg's eyebrows shot for her hairline, and a cynical laugh gusted out of her in disbelief. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You're gonna take this hot little caravan of ours from Lebanon to Essex? On a _hunch_? Well, holy rotting shit." Meg gave another sharp bark of laughter at the erroneous logic, shaking her head. Kansas to New York was a hell of a hike to begin with, but in the world they were living in now? Hell, no wonder it would just be them—they were the only four still alive who were crazy enough to try. "Why not just _Thelma and Louise_ it off the nearest cliff?"

Castiel regarded the map with no small measure of disdain. "Oh, look. And this road trip will lead us right through a dozen hot zones."

Meg shared a brief look with him that spoke of mutual agreement. She knew nothing brought Castiel more joy than being a magnet for infected. It was the remnants of grace left inside him, they'd figured long ago. The chompers couldn't stand it. "Fifteen hundred miles of pure, apocalyptic fun. Better stock up on your rabies shots, handsome."

"Crawlin' with Croats, yeah," Dean uttered dispassionately, his eyes rolling. "Looters, demons, monsters, who knows what else. Hell of a damn good time." The challenge in his unwavering stare was clear. "Are you saying my plan is reckless?"

Castiel's reaction to that was largely apathetic, and he took another drink from his glass. "If you don't like _reckless_ , I could use _insouciant_ ," he uttered mordantly.

"Or _fucking stupid_ ," Meg chimed.

Dean's patience was thinning. "You coming, or not?"

Castiel appeared resigned, discord warring briefly behind his eyes, and he sighed. "Of course." The answer was automatic. They would likely all be killed during this kamikaze venture, but he'd go anyways. Because, despite any burned bridges, Dean was still his best friend and he would still do anything for him. Castiel was in, win or lose. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes asking the question even before he spoke. "Meg?"

A drawn up eyebrow from him. An answering eye roll from her. Sam marveled, not for the first time, at the effortlessness of their unspoken language. The demon looked at the fallen angel silently for a moment as she reached her decision.

With a bitter laugh, Meg said, "What the hell?" She came to stand beside Castiel, leveling a narrow-eyed look at his face and nudging his shoulder with hers. "Someone's gotta watch your ass."

"We head out tomorrow?" Sam surmised, looking between them all. It felt like final words and the dark notion gave him pause as he considered how willing they all were to jump right into the lion's den.

Dean, however, felt satisfaction. He felt vindicated. He'd known in dealing with Castiel and Meg that he only needed one to agree and the other would follow, no matter the danger. Was it manipulative? Yes. Did he care? Perhaps, but there were things he cared more about. Things he _had_ to care more about. "Pack light, pack mean, and bring a set of balls. We've got one chance to pull this off, I don't want any one of you fucking it up." He aimed a cold, meaningful look at Castiel. "Sober up."

The fallen angel offered the room a devil-may-care smile, shrugging and downing the remainder of his drink in salute. "If Dean Winchester says it's time to go out in a blaze of glory, so be it." The glass was placed back on the table with some force, the gallows humor ringing in the air in parting as Castiel turned and left.

The silence in the room hung for a moment more, tension strung tight like a whipcord even as their plans were agreed upon.

"Run along," Dean muttered to the still present company, ducking his chin to regard the maps there. "We're on the road by morning."

All affability had fallen away from Meg's sharp features, and her stare was like a serrated blade ready to dig into his skin. "If he fucking dies because of you, Winchester, I swear…"

"We're all going to die, princess."

"Dean." Sam's voice was terse, no longer passive. Wordlessly, it said to cool it.

Meg resisted the powerful urge to rip the hunter's heart out through his nose. "You're not the only one who apprenticed under Alistair," she said tonelessly. He met her eyes at that one, unwaveringly but not unflinchingly. There was a fracture there somewhere deep and hidden at the reminder of what he'd become once. Trace amounts of guilt and even disgrace flickered behind that empty stare looking back at her. _Good_. He was paying attention. "Remember that, Deano."

He was just good enough at the trade to make it really interesting, should the time ever come when the demon's patience ran out, or when Dean's own patience took that final, critical hit. Meg exchanged a brief look with Sam before she disappeared out the front door after Castiel.

Dean watched her go, saying nothing. Beside him, Sam grimly held his tongue.

* * *

_no wealth no ruin no silver no gold_   
_nothing satisfies me but your soul_   
_I'll open the door to heaven or hell_   
_my name is death and the end is here_

* * *

PRESENT, NEW YORK

_CASTLE STORAGE,_ read the tarnished sign hanging above their heads.

Together, Sam and Dean broke the lock, sliding the corrugated metal door up and open so that the four of them could enter. One by one they filed in, the brothers immediately bee-lining for whatever sector of the room pertained to the code they'd found in their father's journal. Castiel followed them into a caged off area, but he glanced over his shoulder when he noticed Meg wasn't at his side. She stood, foot tapping peevishly, just at the edge of the devil's trap that blocked her access into the subsidiary room. Castiel offered her a tight, rueful smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Pride a little nicked, Meg looked away with a derisory huff, taking in her surroundings with poorly concealed distaste. "Love what John did with the place. What is this décor, anyways? Rustic obsessive?"

" _Hey_." Dean's sharp, whipcrack snarl drew her eyes back to the chain-link separator. "You don't say his name, do you understand me? You don't even _think_ it."

Meg said nothing, meeting his eyes evenly in silent, vacillating regard. There was buried animosity rekindled, but also something approaching sincerity that made the challenging arc of her brow less severe, dark eyes shining under the shoddy fluorescent light. There was less hostility in Sam's eyes, perhaps even an apology there too, but he didn't speak a word to her. Dean continued to stare at her coldly, silently.

Meg inclined her chin a bit primly, squaring her shoulders as she looked away in a bid to preserve that pride with stilted indifference. It wasn't long before she felt the predictable brush of Castiel's jacket as he returned to her, having left the brothers to sorting through their father's old numbering system.

"Ignore him," was his quiet murmur.

His hand ghosted over the small of her back in a passing gesture of assurance, and Meg's lips pressed into a thin line. She wouldn't meet his eyes for some reason. Castiel was watching her carefully, or he might not have seen the barest evidence of attrition. "My daddy killed their daddy. Bit of a sore subject," she muttered, sotto. When he opened his mouth to object, she immediately cut him off. "Nothing you can say, nothing _to_ say. Don't pretend I don't deserve it."

Castiel had no reply to that. He observed her reticence dismally, withholding a sigh of acknowledgement when it became clear by her tone that the subject was dropped.

"Here," Sam spoke up. All eyes fell to the pen. Castiel drifted back over to the entryway as the younger Winchester continued. "Dad says he interrogated the demon and exorcised it."

"The one Crowley said his lackey was after?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, pointing out the inscription to him. "Yeah, but not before it mentioned the First Blade."

"So Crowley was right."

Sam read from their father's notes, his eyebrows furrowed into a crease of concentration. " _Demon said the archangels used a weapon that could kill the Knights of Hell_."

Dean looked over his shoulder, holding off on his own findings to see what Sam had dug up. "He'd never heard of anything like that. Or a First Blade," he surmised.

Sam exchanged a pensive look with his brother, the two of them communicating silently. At Dean's nod, he nodded too. "Dad probably thought the demon was lying."

"Trying to save itself."

"Does it ever surprise you?" Meg wondered to Castiel, raising her eyebrows at him. "How often demons are actually telling the truth?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, tacitly indicating that she spare them all the commentary since Dean was clearly in a mood and Castiel grew weary of playing referee between them. Meg merely gave him a complacent smile, not bothered at all by his fretting. In fact, encouraged by it. Castiel sighed, ignoring the gleam of satisfaction in her eye for having ruffled his feathers. At least her cold isolation seemed to have passed.

But Dean had forgotten she was even in the room—that anyone was in the room in fact, apart from his brother. "Sammy…" A mystified, deeply reverent shock had fallen over him, and a sensation not unlike having ice water tossed down his back seized hold of him only to settle devoutly then in his gut.

"My God," Sam murmured from beside him, seeing it too.

In his hand, Dean had uncovered a new pad of notes, another leather binding full of them—full of their father's writings, full of answers to questions they hadn't even thought to ask. Unchartered heritage stared them both in the face. Dean looked over it carefully in quiet wonder, not sure what to make of what they'd just found. Their father had a whole other journal he'd kept secret, devoted just to finding the Blade? "He could never let it go. Look." Dean held the book up for Sam's inspection.

The younger Winchester was amazed. "Dad searched for it?"

Castiel disappeared back into the pen, awash in curiosity at the find. He began sorting through the documents with the brothers, the three of them working together now to find what they were looking for.

"Holy _shit_ … he had contacts looking all over the _world_." Dean poured over the words, awestruck with a renewed sense of admiration at the man. _This whole time…?_

Sam's attention snagged on something he read. His finger shot forward to point it out, eyes wide and darting to his brother. "Dean, he found a location spell."

But Dean looked devastated now, some of that impassioned resilience falling away in confusion. He shook his head, brow arching in dismay at the thought of such a huge secret being kept from them. Their father had entrusted them with _everything_ , so why hide away something so valuable? Dean couldn't understand it. "Why did he never tell us this?"

Sam's features were drawn. He wore a doleful frown, not quite understanding himself. The atmosphere became heavy under the emotional riddle, and one large shoulder lifted in a helpless shrug. "Maybe he never got the chance to?"

Severing the moment, although not unkindly, Castiel held up another document for them to see. "Your father couldn't find all the ingredients for the spell."

Two pairs of eyes fell on the paper, combing over it carefully and then immediately falling morose at the unattainable grocery list they were faced with.

"Let me see." The three men glanced to their left to see Meg peering through the grating at the paper. She'd abandoned her detached post and her stony silence, ready to be useful. Castiel held up the list for her inspection and her dark eyes scanned the contents. "I can get those."

Dean looked at her sharply, his green stare penetrating. "So do it."

The tone commanded action and obedience. Immediately, the others recognized that the brief lapse of sentimentality was gone and the militant resolve was back. Meg smirked in the face of it, annoyed and rueful all at once. "There's a catch, Mighty Mouse. They'll sense my flitting around and be able to track it."

Sam's brow drew together. "They?"

"Other _demons_? Abaddon's, Crowley's, and every bellycrawler in between."

"Shit," Sam said, echoed shortly after by Dean.

Castiel regarded Meg with burgeoning unease, already knowing where this was headed. Sam was clearly onboard, if a little anxious at the risk, and he looked to his brother for the final decision. Meanwhile, Meg was whistling the _Jeopardy_ theme.

Dean deliberated silently for several long moments, weighing the gamble. Eventually, he issued her a stiff nod. "Do it."

"Highness," the demon acknowledged, bowing scantly. Her smirk blossomed into a full grin, and Meg's eyes slicked to black.

"Meg…" Castiel began, and she could hear the apprehension in his gravelly voice.

"Don't get your feathers in a bunch, handsome. I'll be quick as a jackrabbit." She blew him a kiss, snapped her fingers, and was gone.

The fallen angel grew tense, a muscle tightening in his jaw. He recognized the move for what it was—Meg's way of fixing what she could. Making up for the past, despite that there could be no absolving such a thing. His stoic demeanor revealed outwardly nothing, but those waiting eyes and tightening fists betrayed him as easily as if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.

"She'll be fine, Cas," Sam said from beside him, the futile effort meant to reassure him. "This is Meg, remember?"

"I'm aware of what she's capable," Castiel replied tightly, concern etched heavily on his face. "That doesn't mean…"

The words trailed off almost uncertainly, lost in the brief quiet Meg had left in her wake. Castiel frowned at the empty spot where she'd been, feeling restless. He counted the minutes as they crawled agonizingly by. Between the Crowley loyalists and Abaddon's headhunters, Meg had very few friends and very many enemies. The notion had him itching to fly off and lay waste to something, but here he was—grounded and useless.

Sam laid a hand over his shoulder briefly, wordlessly conveying that he understood.

"How about you use your little love connection powers and tell your girlfriend to hurry up," Dean chimed unhelpfully.

As if on cue, Meg stood before them again with her arms full, somewhat frazzled. Castiel let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and both he and the Winchesters filed back out of the pen to see what she'd found. Meg was already moving towards the back of the main room, dumping the ingredients onto the tool bench there. "Let's make some cocktails, boys. And move your asses because time is not on our side right now."

"Did anyone follow you?" Castiel asked, not even bothering to keep the demand from his voice.

"Picked up a tail somewhere near Jerusalem, but I shook it. Not sure for how long. _Chop, chop_ —let's get baking before all that messy brown stuff impacts the oscillating blades, shall we?"

When the ingredients were properly mixed, Sam excavated the room until he'd found a map behind one of the metal shelves and he spread it over the tabletop in front of them. "Matches?"

Dean already had the pack out, striking one against the rough edge and, as Meg poured the mixture out over the map, Dean lit the surface and they all watched it go up in flame. The fire swelled in a short burst, drawing inwards then by the primordial pull of magic that kept the flame controlled and deliberate. Within moments, it was extinguished, the burnt remnants leaving behind only a small, singed section that was still legible.

"Eldridge…" Sam murmured, a disillusioned frown splitting his face. "Missouri."

Dean stared, expression raw and quiet fury mounting as the map lay there taunting them all. When he spoke, his voice was low and menacing against the outcome. "You mean we travelled fifteen hundred miles all the way to New York when the Blade was sitting right next door?"

There was a tense beat of silence, and then Meg burst out laughing into a high-pitched cackle.

" _What_?" he snarled.

"I'm sorry," she said through the bitterness, not sorry at all. "That's fucking hilarious."

Dean looked as though he'd sooner kill her than look at her. Sam sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "We probably drove right past it."

"That is…" Castiel looked jaded and annoyed, "unfortunate."

" _Shit_ ," Dean bit out, beginning to angrily pace.

"Now what," Sam muttered.

"We drive back to fucking Missouri, Sam."

"We'll need to make a pit stop," Meg said, indifferent to the two identical glares leveled her way, though she managed to look both condescending and insulted at the same time. "Hey. Unless you want demons following us, we need to take precautions. They're on my ass now."

Dean was too infuriated for inconveniences. "Easy. We leave you. Or kill you. Win-win."

"Cute," Meg sneered, ignoring the jibe and automatically putting a hand over Castiel's arm to calm the sudden storm in his eyes.

"Meg will return to the camp with us," he said, regardless. His tone was that of a gavel slamming down, leaving no room for dispute.

"Easy, tiger. He knows he's not getting rid of me."

Dean shouldered past them both, his sudden attitude as potent as roadkill, and everyone gave him a wide berth. "Get your asses back on the road."

Castiel and Meg followed after him mutely, retorts hanging useless on their tongues. Sam shied back, taking a moment to soak in the memory of this place, thinking that he may never see it again. It was only a storage locker, sure, but it held a piece of their father and there just wasn't enough of that these days.

Sam missed the man.

It had taken him a long time to admit it, a long time to realize it, but be truly did miss his father. He had never known his mother, not really, and what memories he did have of John weren't always pleasant. But that he had memories at all was a blessing, he found. His father had made a lot of mistakes, but so had Sam. A decade later and he finally saw how similar they really were.

_Just trying to keep the family together._

His brother needed help, and Sam didn't know how to help him. So… yeah. He wished desperately that their father were here to tell him what to do. To say anything, really. Not just about Dean, but _everything_. The world didn't belong to them anymore but they still had to live in it. Still had to fight for it. Dean didn't quite seem to agree and he was fighting for something else. He really had switched places with Sam. At least, the Sam of _before_. Chasing revenge and damning the consequences, damning whoever was lost in the process.

He'd almost killed Meg today.

Sam didn't want to think about what Castiel would have done if that had happened. He was no idiot, despite any outward denial—Castiel had sold his fucking soul, and he'd sold it for Meg. Deep down, Dean probably knew it, too. There was no other explanation. Sam _saw_ Crowley kill her. He _watched_ Meg die. He felt like shit for it then and he still did to this day because it was primarily his fault. Castiel had told him one thing that night— _stay here and protect Meg_.

Sam wore a dark look under heavily furrowed brows, a terrible sense of failure afflicting him.

_I'm sorry I let you down, Cas. I'm sorry you had to do what you did._

If Meg died again… or when Cas himself eventually died? Sam felt a sick feeling churn through his gut at the thought. They were going to lose Cas. Nine more years and he was gone. He'd be dragged to Hell and then what would Meg do? What would any of them do? Dean was hanging by a thread as it was—he _said_ he no longer gave a shit about collateral damage, but if he lost his best friend? One of the _only_ few friends he had left? Sam wasn't even sure what he would do himself. When that clock chimed twelve on Castiel's last hour… Sam felt a shudder rush through him, eye wiring shut in a cringe to erase the thought. He couldn't lose another person like that. Another brother.

He wanted to stop losing people, period.

Maybe if Dean saw this through to the end… maybe it really would save them all.

If it didn't kill them first.

* * *

_touch my mouth and hold my tongue_   
_I'll never be your chosen one_   
_the pull on my flesh was just too strong_   
_stifled the choice and the air in my lungs_   
_better not to breathe than to breathe a lie_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

" _Od oiad teloc ip sa od oiad paaox ip noasmi oiad teloc_. And the departed shall remain, and the remains shall be the departed," Ezekiel explained to his companion. "When an angel leaves a vessel, they leave behind a piece of themselves."

They stood in the younger Winchester's cabin, the faint sounds of the camp's everyday chaos droning from outside. Ezekiel had said a place of peaceful quiet would be beneficial for the start of these exercises, and this was really the only piece of Camp Chitaqua that Sam had to himself. _For_ himself, really.

"Like an angelic fingerprint?" he wondered, offering the angel a beer from the icebox he kept in the corner.

"Yes," Ezekiel said, amused by the brevity and of the offer that superseded it. He shook his head and Sam returned the second bottle, twisting the cap off his own. "However you would like to refer to it, this _piece_ of Gadreel contains grace."

Sam's brow knit in confusion and surprise. "You're saying there's angelic _grace_ inside of me?"

"Yes." Ezekiel said again, nodding. "I'm going to teach you how to _channel_ that grace, and to use that connection to track Gadreel."

"Wait…" Sam frowned and shook his head. An immediate sense of worry befell him at the unexpected shift of responsibility, and it was plainly evident on his face in a way that brought the angel deep sadness. "You're not going to help? I thought you were going to be the one to—"

"Sam." Ezekiel offered him a temperate smile. "I'll do what I can. I said that I would, and I meant it. But you are strong in ways an angel can only dream of being. _You_ hold the connection. Gadreel's grace is _here_." He held a finger over Sam's heart, regarding the human as though witnessing something remarkable there. "If anyone has the power to find him, it's you."

"Doesn't feel like I have anything in there," Sam muttered, rubbing a hand absently over his chest. The young hunter looked dispirited in every way, drinking morosely from his bottle and studying his feet with an intensely pensive frown.

"You have far more than grace alone inside you, Sam Winchester." Ezekiel spoke heavily, the words resonating in a manner that was undeniably stirring. "As to the connection you share with Gadreel, it will take time, but I promise that you will learn to harness and exploit that connection as easily as any spell."

"How long are we talking?" Sam asked, a tired smile edging at the corners of his mouth.

Ezekiel quietly chuckled. "That depends on you." At Sam's hesitance, he went on. "If I did not think you could do this, I would not have brought it to your attention."

"I don't know how much you know or what you've seen, Zeke, but I'm not exactly what you'd call a safe bet."

Much of Ezekiel's quiet exuberance fell away at the banked pain and self-doubt packed into those few words. So much suffering and tribulation had befallen this human, so much evil and so much of it undeserved. It was both disheartening and truly maddening to see Sam regard himself with such lack of faith when none of that fault could ever be allowed to rest on his shoulders.

Ezekiel regarded him more seriously, benevolence falling away to conviction. "Throughout my time on this earth I've come to realize that the more someone has to tell you that they are something, the less truth there usually is to it. In that very same respect, the less a man thinks of himself, the more he seems to truly be worth." Admiration was rooted deeply in the angel's expression as he considered his human companion, and his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Sam said nothing, stunned by surprise into silence. "I have seen the evils of this world and of Heaven, just as keenly as I've beheld its wonders. I was there when our brightest star fell and I have faced down Satan's armies from the moment time itself first drew breath. I have traversed eternity, worlds of fire, of majesty, and I can tell you the name of every star my Father hung in the sky above us. I've seen terrible, beautiful things you can only _dream_ of imagining."

The air around them buzzed with a sudden current of energy, the lights flickering overhead as great skeletal shadows unfurled against the walls of the cabin. Dark eyes gained ethereal luminance, brilliant with righteous favor. Ezekiel had risen to his full height, nearly eye to eye with Sam but all the more imposing.

His voice was a sonorous command, and Sam instinctively shrank back in the face of it. "Look at me. You know what I am, and yet you have no idea. I am an angel of Heaven, a celestial being borne into existence by the Most High. I am a _warrior_ , virtually limitless. Yet here I stand, impressed by _you_ , Sam Winchester. _You_ are who I strive to emulate. Your compassion, your desire to do good, it is what inspires _all_ of us. And let me tell you… it _means something_ , boy."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Ezekiel barreled right over him with perhaps even more severity than before.

"You are _mighty_. In all the ways an angel is and is not. You have our strengths yet _none_ of our weaknesses. Our lack of emotion limits us, but it lives in you as brightly as that grace you carry, and it has driven you since you first taught yourself to stand. I've _seen_ the miracles you've accomplished throughout the years, Sam. You withstood Lucifer. Your will was stronger than his, than the Morning Star's himself. To anyone, that would astound, but I assure you that— _to angels?_ —that moment was one of humanity's _greatest_ feats. He was the most powerful of any of us and yet that power paled in comparison to yours, my friend." The angel's rant gradually tempered, the lights returning to their proper luster and the shadows at Ezekiel's back falling away. Deeply rooted pride showed over every inch of his countenance, earnesty softening the words he said so strongly. "Knowing this as you now do, is it safe for me to presume that you will not doubt yourself again?"

Sam could do little else but stare, dumbstruck. After a long moment, he swallowed hard, nodding slightly. "I… alright. Yeah. I understand."

"Good." Ezekiel's dark features softened into a passing smile. "Now," he began. "We're going to explore a form of transcendental meditation, which will help you focus on those remnants of grace and to seek out its source. Are you familiar at all with meditation?"

"Somewhat," Sam replied, still a little uncertain. Jess had tried getting him into yoga once, but that was about the extent of what he knew on a personal level. Everything else was just witnessed secondhand or read about.

"The transcendental form is a rather simplified practice that emerges from Vedanta, where you assume a still position and use a mantra, a sacred word that is repeated. The subject focuses on rising above all that is impermanent. In this practice, the state of being changes, much like… I believe humans refer to it as an out-of-body experience. The body's state of being, in _this_ instance, is to merge with and find the source of the grace it houses. Do you follow?"

Sam nodded. "I think so. What's the sacred word?"

" _Eaohnvozi_. Vessel."

Sam allowed the wealth of knowledge to settle in, his mind working through everything the angel said with careful deliberation. "You really think I can do this?"

"You Winchesters have a habit of surprising us," Ezekiel remarked, rather fondly. Sam, he knew, felt inadequate because of his mistakes, his past, because of this new handicap. All of those things were swirling in a dark nebulous inside the human's thoughts and the angel could see it plain as day. "I think the only obstacle that can keep you from any goal is yourself."

Sam mulled this over for a long time before finally letting out a long breath. "Guess I better whip myself into shape then."

Ezekiel's regard of him was intensely heartening. A powerful hand rested over the hunter's shoulder in support, and the angel dipped his chin in a reaffirming nod. "You will do this, Sam. I have faith in you."

* * *

_there's a place where you can light the fire and watch it burn_   
_lay it down and lose it all_   
_it's taken me so far beyond the point of no return_   
_someday soon will fade away_   
_what's it going to take to survive?_

* * *

15 MONTHS BEFORE THE FALL

Her life was a series of befores and afters—the Risa of now certainly not the same woman she was before her fiancé's eyes turned black and he tried to choke the life out of her. That Risa had no idea how to handle a gun, how to chant an exorcism, how to draw a devil's trap. Still… she'd take that life over what she had now. The world would never be what it was, not since Croatoan hit the planet, and frankly she wasn't sure there _was_ an after for her. For any of them.

She'd joined the Winchesters' crew because they seemed to be the only ones doing more than just surviving. She'd known his name before the virus, of course—hell, every hunter did. Even newbies like her had heard about it when he'd clawed his way out of his own grave, when he and his brother set Lucifer free, and then the rumor that he was the only one who could beat the devil. Well… that seemed to have worked out. She hoped it was as easy to beat a Knight of Hell. Hoped it was really as simple as playing with matches, or as effortless as the Winchesters seemed to make everything look.

Risa didn't think Dean trusted her at first, and really, she didn't blame him. It wasn't because she was a woman. It was her inexperience compared to the others. But she knew her shit more than any civilian, than the survivors they found, the runaways and refugees they offered sanctuary. She was good in a fight, and was a hell of a shot with a sniper rifle. It hadn't taken her long to prove herself.

She found him far into the back of the camp, where the thistle and weeds grew thick. He was alone, sitting on the hood of a black '67 Impala that had foliage growing through it.

Green eyes and freckles made an appealing package. Risa was interested despite herself. Despite that dark cloud that was always hanging over his head, the brooding scowl, the decades of baggage that dragged along at his feet like shackles. It wasn't even a bad boy thing. It was something else entirely, something she couldn't put a name to. She knew he was attracted to her, had caught him looking, but so far he hadn't made any sort of move. She wondered what he'd been like before all this. Before he went to Hell and got pulled out, before the Fall, before Croatoan hit.

Dean knew he had company but said nothing. Risa silently moved to stand beside him where he sat on the old hood.

"Can't hardly see the stars anymore," he remarked after awhile.

His voice was gruff like she was used to. Risa lifted a shoulder. "I used to live in New York. Never really saw the stars much anyways."

"Used to park sometimes in a field and look at them."

"By yourself?"

He shook his head, looking like he was lost in some memory. "Not always."

They killed twelve Croats that day and didn't lose any of their own people, and that was what passed for a good day now. Risa felt the energy buzzing under her skin, humming in her veins and pulsing at her back, an unseen force pressing her forward. Almost sensing her intent, Dean angled his neck to look at her.

"I'm a fucking mess, Risa."

His voice was softer, vulnerable unlike anything she was used to. It betrayed the emotional fatigue that hung over him like a permanent dark cloud. His own words vacillated between them in the deafening silence of twilight, echoing off his troubled mind and lending origin to the somewhat haunted expression he wore. Reluctance crept over him, his eyes flooded with uncertainty and something so close to shame that it bolstered her already fervent resolve.

"Yeah. Me too, Winchester." Risa took his face in her hands, scruff scratching at her palms, and kissed him.

He fell into her as though he were starving. Need and hope shuddered through him and he recognized how long it had been since he felt like that. Since he felt anything at all.

Risa let him grab and pull at her until she was lying beneath him on the hood, his hands and mouth softer than she would have imagined them being. He was pure, nihilistic desperation. The metal wasn't cool at her back—everything was so hot nowadays and it was always hard to breathe that arid, stale air, but she breathed him in like life and exhaled life back into him. It took hours before her lungs began to remember what they were good for.

That night, they both saw stars.

She wasn't really surprised when he showed up at her cabin two nights later, kicking the door closed behind himself and pillaging more kisses and promises from her mouth. They almost tripped over her boots lying in the way and he laughed against her mouth because of it, eyes bright in a way she didn't think she'd ever seen before. Risa touched his face with fond tenderness, surprised at the warmth filling her chest.

Their stolen nights became dangerous. They became more than adrenaline and survivor's guilt and the need to forget. Dean started giving her full smiles each time, showing her how far they'd fallen, and Risa tried not to reveal how stunned she was by how different it made him look. Younger and more hopeful, like the world hadn't gone to shit and they weren't all just marking time until they followed it down.

It took her another month or so to realize how much more she was smiling, too—when Dean was showing up a couple nights a week and they were both trying not to think about what it meant.

Nothing changed otherwise. Dean didn't open up or tell her anything more than he told the others. He didn't seek out her advice or act like she was special. He ran things on a need-to-know basis like everything else, and clearly he didn't think she needed to know. She was okay with that.

Then came the supply raid where they lost half the patrol. Dean lead out a second to bring in some demons for intel. He'd locked them in the camp's makeshift prison, and Risa made herself scarce when she heard the screaming. She remembered the looks on Sam and Castiel's faces, and likely would never forget them. The buried conflict, the sinister reminders resurfacing at whatever the hell was going on behind those doors. They knew, and she didn't want to.

The days of trying to save hosts were long gone. Risa kind of hated herself for thinking it was easier this way.

That night, she woke to the sound of someone entering her cabin. She had a gun pointed at him even as she was blinking sleep out of her eyes.

"Hey," he said, holding up a half-empty bottle of whisky. "Just me." He didn't offer her any, but she could taste it in his mouth.

After that night, he seemed worse than before, worse than she'd ever seen him. They continued like this for several months, longer than she ever should have allowed it to go on. Risa didn't know if he was sleeping with anyone else, and she often told herself that she didn't care.

She liked to think she was smarter than the people they rescued, the civilian survivors who believed the things he told them about winning this war, the ones who thought him a hero. But she fell for him, the same as everyone else.

Worse, she knew she'd do it all over again.

* * *

_don't make me sad, don't make me cry_   
_the road is long, we carry on_   
_let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain_   
_choose your last words, this is the last time_   
_cause you and I, we were born to die_

* * *

PRESENT, PENNSYLVANIA

It hadn't taken long at all for demons to catch up to them.

They'd yet to make it to shelter for the night, and just as they were parking the jeep at the back of some dingy alley, a small pack of demons had jumped them. Dean had one choking on sulfur and brimstone barely thirty seconds from when he'd stepped out of the vehicle. Sam and Castiel fought off the other three, Castiel with his own blade and Sam with his short-barrel until Dean could finish them off. Meg had the last one spitting blood under her superior power, and she wore her satisfaction like a crown when the lesser creature was left spasming at her feet.

"What do you think, Captain Bossy Pants?" she asked in menacing tones. "This one useful?"

"Keep him alive," Dean uttered darkly. He looked upon their conduit for answers with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly, his gaze contrasting sharply with his relaxed pose.

Now, they stood in a small circle around the bound demon—a devil's trap beneath him and four penetrating glares above him. They'd set up in an old abandoned apartment building that was mostly falling apart but still the most fortified shelter on the block. Everything else was more likely to cave in on their heads than anything. The sun was sitting low in the sky, affording them little daylight. Sam brought a lantern over from their supplies, setting it down on a nearby table next to their weapons.

Meg's senses were always on high alert for Croats or other possible hiccups to their little quest, but right now she was craving the good ol' days as she watched Dean carve into the bellowing demon from inside the trap. The surly hunter could be so persuasive when the times called for it. Castiel looked on impassively, Sam too except for the slight twitch of muscle in his jaw that gave him away. Meg wondered if demon blood did the same thing to him now as it had in the past.

"Who do you belong to, Fido? Dickbag or bitch? I won't ask again."

Both of the demon's hands were gone. Gnarled, bloody patterns were carved all over its chest and face, deep gouges dug into its arms. Still, it laughed. " _Crowley_ , alright?" it divulged in a breathless snarl. Its chest heaved with the residual aftershocks of its harrowing screams, its eyes black as pitch in the face of Dean's cold resolve.

"Oh, how _is_ the smarmy dick these days?" Meg piped up with a malevolent smile. "Does he know I'm looking for him?"

"Are you?" the demon spat. "You seem more interested in playing lapdog to an angel." A bark of cynical laughter broke free of its abused throat. "How's he doing? _Shitty_. Though, to be honest, I'm not sure if the King's more afraid of you or your boyfriend."

The twisted gratification she felt at that was almost overwhelming. "Just as long as he's afraid, I'm tickled pink."

"Will you shut up?" Dean snapped. Right now, information was paramount. They had bigger fish than Crowley and Dean's vision was tunneled and red. "I'm asking the questions." The light of the lantern threw his face into sharp relief as he turned back on their prisoner, half in shadow, half in light, and his eyes were dark pools of animosity as he shortened the distance between them. "You answer to _me_ , you piece of shit. Got it? I'm the one with the knife and the complex. _I_ run the show."

"You're scaring your little brother, Dean," the demon all but sang.

Its voice was pitched low and derisive in an attempt to nettle its tormentor. Dean didn't even look away from its face as he drove the knife into the demon's knee, the wound immediately sputtering brimstone and earning a virulent scream. The hunter considered the result with faked interest. "Guess I lost my patience. Sometimes my manners just plain suck. Tell me honestly… do I really look like I'm in the kind of mood to repeat myself?"

"You run the show," it gasped, the veritable plea for reprieve as hostile as its incisive glare. Dean removed the knife with a baleful twist.

"Let's talk about Abaddon."

"I told you… I'm for _Crowley_ , asshole! How would I know anything about carrot top?"

Dean smiled, the gesture showing zero humanity. "You expect me to believe Crowley isn't keeping tabs on his competition? He's either scared to death of her or pissed as hell at her. More than likely both. He's gonna wanna know every move she makes."

It laughed, the sound rasping in its battered throat along with the blood and possible broken teeth. "Last he heard, she was looking for a lieutenant."

"She already has lieutenants. We've had the pleasure of killing several of them."

A gory smile spread the demon's lips. "Not the one she _wants_." Before Dean could ask just what the hell that meant, the demon's eyes slid knowingly to Meg. "Everybody just wants little orphan Annie to come back home…"

Meg snorted, dismissing the insidious voice and all it implied. "The pay sucks, no thanks."

Beside her, Castiel bristled. His eyes narrowed and unconsciously he drifted closer in a manner that was blatantly possessive. Meg rolled her eyes at the territorial move, but inwardly she couldn't help but derive steep pleasure out of being the center of his attention. He looked at the trapped demon in silent disdain, willing answers out of it so that they could kill it already.

"Less watercooler shit," Dean snapped, raising the knife to the demon's eyeline menacingly. "Let's talk game changers or I get bored and turn you into a torso."

"Like _what_?" it practically snarled.

"Like what's her fucking _endgame_! Quit dicking around—you think I don't know Crowley sent you to spill more than just your guts?" Dean's restraint had finally cracked and his temper split wide open. His eye bored into his captive with righteous anger at the obstinate wall standing in his way. "He wants her out of the way as much as we do, so do your damn _job_. Otherwise I'll send you back to your master with nothing to show for it and _he_ can deal with you."

The demon abruptly quieted, an eerie dispassion falling over it like a shroud. A faint smile played at its lips as it looked between each of them in turn before its black gaze settled back on Dean. "But if you don't have to work for it, where's the fun in that? For either of us."

Dean's eyes were brilliant with suppressed anger, scratching away at the surface of his composure. "I swear, if you don't—"

"What do you _think_ her endgame is, you miserable ape?" The demon's entire demeanor changed, an unnerving calm opposite the group now. At the tense silence, it gave a disgusted sneer, almost relishing the havoc it caused upon what came out of its mouth next. "To raise Lucifer."

A chilling pause swept over the room, as if the very air around them had solidified. A feeling of nausea was there to season the pervasive dread as the reality of such revelation slowly sunk in.

"Fuck," Sam uttered, voice gone soft with terror. His breath left his lungs in a powerful rush of abject shock, the sudden sense of desperation like a living thing growing inside him. Castiel paled considerably and his eyes went to Meg's face, not quite sure what he was looking for but needing to see her reception of the news. The demon remained utterly nonreactive but for the telltale squeak of leather as her crossed arms tensed over her chest.

Dean had gone utterly still. He closed his eyes for a tumultuous moment, trying to stop the tremor that started from deep within his chest and was pervasively radiating outwards as his worst fears solidified into terrifying reality. Though outwardly he gave no indication he was affected, the beat of his heart pounded against his ribs.

The demon went on, merciless and enjoying their collective anxiety. As though it were proud. "Break him out of the cage, once and for all. The grand finale."

Mouth gone dry, Dean shook his head, feeling as though the room were spinning. "How's she gonna do that? The key's in the cage."

"Lucifer's shut away," Sam said, needing to say it. Needing to remember it himself. The words came out of his throat as a rough rasp, and he cleared it determinedly. "For good. I was _there_."

The demon was unmoved by their conviction. "A ritual."

A harsh breath blew out of Dean's mouth in a scoff. "Of course," he retorted, but there was muted panic behind his eyes.

" _Under the Knight's reign, from the blood of the imprisoned and over a site of imprisonment, the Morning Star shall eternally sever all bonds of his exile. In half a contract's time from the closing of the door, Abaddon must take the life of another who has endured the cage_." It aimed a pointed, compassionless look at Sam. "How poetic that it be the one who locked the devil away in the first place?" It laughed—a hollow, grating sound. "She _wants_ you to come for her, you stupid jackasses."

Every nerve came alive, every fear realized in that single moment. Dean shook his head, numbed by the thought. "She's gonna risk us coming for her with the Blade just for a chance at Sam?"

"It's _Lucifer_ ," said their captive, the callous reminder coming out harsh and contemptuous. "If you were a demon, wouldn't you?"

Once more, its eyes slid to Meg in appraisal. She smiled tightly, trying to disguise the chill she felt. "Sorry, stumpy. I don't play for your team anymore."

It's jet eyes glittered in the low light. "We'll see."

Castiel, throughout the course of the interrogation, had gone aberrantly quiet. He stared coldly, silently, saying nothing. Blue eyes were stormy and dull, his expression a hollow mask that Meg found inscrutable. His posture was like a sinew pulled taut, ready to snap at any given moment. His hand rested, unmoving, over the holy steel holstered at his thigh. The cold bite of it on his fingers was reassuring and it was a habit he'd kept since the Fall.

Nearby, Sam activated, coming out of his wan daze which dissipated in favor of his mulish persistence for answers. "So, wait—half a contract's time. That's five years."

"Since the closing of the door," Castiel echoed, speaking finally.

Beside him, Meg asked the million dollar question. "When did Bullwinkle lock up Big Daddy?"

"May thirteenth, 2010," Dean said quietly, his answer immediate. His face was set in hard lines, his lips pressed firmly together. The sharp planes of his face seemed even sharper against the harshness of his expression. That date would be forever branded into his mind. "This May is five years from the moment Sammy took a swan dive into the cage."

Sam looked alarmed, his heart starting to race. "That means this is gonna go down in three months."

" _Where_?" Dean posed, the single word clipped and dripping with displeasure.

"Site of imprisonment," Sam recalled of the demon's earlier words, looking at it darkly. "That means Stull Cemetery."

It made a dull buzzer sounding noise, shaking its head. Dean glared down into its face, pinning it with a look that would have left the demon bleeding on the floor if it had been endowed with any physical power. His temper bubbled just beneath the surface, fingers gripped tight around the handle of the knife and itching to spill blood. The cavalier attitude the demon had only intensified the primal urge, and Dean had to ruthlessly tamp it down using every ounce of willpower he had. The darkness within him gathered in spite of his efforts.

"I don't think so," Castiel said pensively, mulling over the information they'd garnered. "Too specific for a spell this archaic. _A_ site of imprisonment. The cage has an array of access points all over the world, given the right magic. It could mean anywhere the door itself has been opened. Stull Cemetery, Detroit, St. Mary's Convent…" He shook his head. "We should research other possible locations—"

"Detroit," Dean answered hollowly.

"How do you know that?" Meg asked, breaking the terrible silence that had fallen over the group.

"It's always Detroit."

Dean's words rang throughout the room not unlike a chilling death knell, setting each and every occupant on edge. The trapped demon appeared deeply gratified at this ultimate conclusion, knowing it was going to die but yet satisfied because it had done what it had been sent to do. It stared into the eyes of its executioner, brash and inciting.

"Run or die screaming, children."

With unforgiving force and clouded torment in his eyes, Dean drove the tip of the blade up into the demon's skull.

* * *

_satan, you know where I lie_   
_gently I go into that good night_   
_never armed our souls_   
_for what the future would hold_

* * *

While on the road, the nights passed like broken glass. They'd exchange watch shifts as they had for the past several, Meg seldom recessing since she didn't require sleep and was the only viable Croat detector they had. This night in particular, they'd settled into the abandoned building for the night, lugging the corpse into a side room until they could deal with it in the morning.

Meg handed Castiel a slip of paper with markings on it she'd drawn, the instructions unspoken but understood. She drew her jacket down off her shoulders, leaving only bare skin and the sheer-backed tank top. Castiel's mouth went unnaturally dry, heat flushing up his neck at the sight.

Meg raised a questioning eyebrow, unmoving as she stared at him.

"That shirt. I like it."

A knowing smile played at the edges of her lips, dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. "There's nothing _to_ this shirt, boy wonder. That's why you like it."

"Mm," he grunted, contemplating the validity of that and seeming to decide she was correct.

Castiel remembered first seeing her wear it.

* * *

_Meg had exquisite taste, despite the leather and studded accessories. Such luxuries were hard to come by these days, so rare finds like this were coveted. He remembered walking into their cabin to find her dancing, swaying to a rhythm droning from the radio in the corner as the diaphanous silk hugged her every curve. Finding music was also a rarity, but Meg loved material things. She complained often for the lack of gossip magazines and how everything worth reading was out of print. Today, she wore jeans and that shirt, barefoot and twirling slowly, rolling her hips, looking up at him from under smoky lashes._

" _Dance with me, hotwings."_

_Much like he did now, his mouth had gone dry then too as she made her way over to him. "I… can't. Dance."_

_Meg brushed against him, running her fingers slowly over the front of his shirt, up his chest, around his neck. "Have you ever tried?"_

_Castiel swallowed hard, unable to look away from the movement of her body and being intensely captivated by it. He gave the barest shake of his head. "No," he murmured. "But some knowledge is inherent."_

" _Exactly," she purred, turning his words against him. "I bet that meatsuit of yours used to cut a rug." Meg saw the confusion at that in his eyes and smirked, letting him puzzle it over on his own. Already she was playing with the hem of his shirt, fingers dragging over the buttons, tugging him just a little closer by the front of it. "Come on, Grumpy. Show me some moves."_

" _I'd rather do other things with you."_

_The heat in his voice, the desire pooled in his eyes, was enough to get to her. Meg forewent her perpetual mission to loosen him up and instead rose up on her toes to capture his mouth with hers. Large hands pressed against the material over her back, sliding over it, gripping at it, and ultimately casting it aside._

_As alluring as the shirt was, his preference fell on what lay underneath._

* * *

Now, Meg sat with the elegant curve of her spine displayed before him, having settled together on the wooden floor of the cluttered, candlelit room. Darkness was cheap and a generator would only draw attention they didn't want. The crescent moon afforded them no light, so they had to make do with what they could. Castiel silently considered the markings on the paper he held, a box cutter in his other hand.

If Meg was to be hidden from other demons after her unorthodox means of transportation earlier, this was how. Castiel wasn't happy about it—the thought of carving into her skin left him with a bit of a knot in his stomach—but the alternative options left them little other choice.

"Think you can handle those, Van Gogh?"

"He's the one who cut off his own ear?"

"Seemed appropriate."

Castiel contemplated this as he set aside the slip of paper and drew her hair back across her neck, brushing it gently over one shoulder. "Peculiar thing to do."

"Mental break, declaration of love, who knows."

His eyes raised from the study of her bare skin to regard what little of her face he could see. Dark lashes, the swell of a snowy cheek, the barest curve of ruby lips. "I doubt I would cut off my own ear to show you romantic favor."

"Break my heart, Clarence."

Castiel smiled a little, pressing the blade carefully into her skin and beginning the meticulous process. "I'm not sure how severing a body part could possibly affirm my devotion."

"You never were very creative," she lamented on a sigh, staring ahead into the night afforded by the open window.

* * *

"Here," said Sam, tossing his brother a small wrapped package. In another room on the opposite side of the building, the brothers sat in vigil, their weapons kept close and a case of energy drinks split between them.

"More tuna?" Dean presumed with flat consideration, but as he unwrapped the paper, the words _Little Debbie Apple Pie Snacks_ stared back at him like a beacon from Heaven itself. "Pie. How the fuck did you find pie?"

Sam snorted as Dean shredded the box and a small pile of individually foiled snacks tumbled out. "Found it at the convenience store we hit about a state back." He nodded his head at the one Dean was in the process of tearing into. "Not sure how old they are, but given it's _Little Debbie_ , they're supposed to last a generation or something."

Dean had already shoveled in a healthy bite. "Tastes like shit," he said, mouth full. He continued to eat it anyways. "Who knew it'd only take the apocalypse for you to finally get me some damn pie."

Sam chuckled, prying the lid to his canned corn open with his pocket knife. He was glad the small gesture had yielded a positive effect, relieved to see something other than onerous battle-readiness adorning his brother's face. Hell, to see something actually approaching _joy_ in his eyes, no matter how small or how fleeting. It was trivial, but it was a start.

Sam would take whatever small remnants of his brother were left.

* * *

Castiel and Meg had fallen into a comfortable quiet as he worked, pressing the blade deep enough to scar if she forewent healing them and shallow enough to spare her unnecessary discomfort. Several minutes in, Meg glanced over her shoulder at his handiwork, her eyes raking appreciatively over the elegant lattice work of sigils that traversed across her back.

"You're an artist."

Castiel made a quiet sound of acknowledgement as he concentrated. Meg hissed a little at a particularly deep gouge. "Hurts?" his low voice said beside her, drifting in the soft heat between them and over her skin in a way that was almost too intimate.

"Just the magic," she said. "Pain is fine."

Castiel paused in his work and leaned forward, fingers gently caressing down her arms. His lips pressed softly over the skin above the markings, ghosting along her neck to ease the ache. Meg's eyes fluttered shut at the divine sensation, her head tipping back against him. A quiet sound spilled from her, fever waking along her flesh.

"You know, for an angel, you kiss like the devil."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"It is."

She felt his fleeting smile against her skin, strong fingers squeezing over her arms in a gesture of comfort and solidarity before they slid around her to possessively draw her closer. He heard the quiet sigh of satisfaction that escaped her lips as he did so.

"You never used these when hiding from Crowley?" he asked, indicating the sigils.

Meg shook her head slightly. "Felt like the easy way out. Besides, hiding from Crowley was easy. Abaddon is… tougher." The reply was quiet, even somewhat subdued, and it indicated that she was lost in a world of her own for the moment. Glazed eyes fought a war within.

While the Knight and her followers would not attack or seek out Meg at the camp because of sheer impracticality, they'd certainly look for her on the road when there were only four of them against a veritable army. Crowley though didn't know where she nor the camp were located, Meg didn't think. Then there was the very satisfying factor that he was apparently wont to avoid her and Castiel at all feasible costs. Whatever the little treetopper had said to the fallen king seemed to have done the trick—which, unfortunately, made it difficult to find the bastard if she were trying.

It wasn't the first time her company appeared to be privy to her thoughts, so Meg was hardly surprised when his next words broke through the quiet.

"Crowley only found you because of me."

If Castiel was being totally honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he'd been scared out of his mind these past few days. First with the incident of the demon bomb, again at the storage locker, and now most of all with the additional threat of Lucifer's return suspended ominously over their heads. It was a stark, harrowing reminder of times past—times he was determined to forget all about. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he'd intensely wished to avoid placing her in harm's way on this venture. It was a foolish endeavor of course, as Meg was no china doll in danger of being ruined. In fact, she'd probably cut off his ear for even entertaining the thought, no matter what his intentions or how irrational.

Even still… Meg was not invincible. Something he was reminded of every night in his dreams. Guilt ravaged him unexpectedly at the mere mention of Crowley, and he hadn't meant to walk down that road again, but how many more times would she be made to suffer for his mistakes? The answer eluded and disturbed him.

Meg's tone indicated warning. "Cas."

Castiel was insistent, animosity at himself meshing with the indignation he felt on her behalf. "You helped _me_. And because of it…" He broke off, and whether it was deliberate or unintentional remained a mystery even to him. He found himself staring sullenly at the tracks of crimson red that oozed sluggishly out of her skin, his hand splayed reverently now across her back beneath the marks he'd left.

"Hey." Meg twisted to face him, taking in his brooding demeanor. "Nix the pity party. They're annoying."

Castiel stubbornly averted his eyes, though his voice tempered somewhat. "I don't feel pity, I feel anger. I have a tendency to break everything, and it… pisses me off."

Her lips twitched a little at the uncharacteristic remark, her countenance somewhat brightened. He had a tendency to surprise her, even when she was sure she had him figured out. The demon thoughtfully considered him as Castiel appeared to slip into bleak introspection. "Do you ever wonder if maybe you were supposed to be on the other side?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Meg knew that she'd made a mistake in her choice of topic, hurting him deeply somehow. Castiel looked at her as if struck, seeming to crumple in on himself under the weight of sudden, dismayed confusion. "Why would you say that?"

One corner of her mouth lifted in a halfhearted, conciliatory smile, her eyes evidencing chagrin. "This isn't me trying to tempt you to darker pastures, Clarence. It's just a question. Don't answer, if you don't want."

Castiel was frowning, the words having affected him much more than he cared to admit, because he _did_ often think it. The ire appeared to drain from him, a new bone-weariness taking its place. "Sometimes," he admitted tonelessly, and immediately seemed to regret it. His expression was still clouded with inner doubt, and Meg felt irritation at herself for putting it there. Wordlessly, his eyes sought hers for a distraction from such miring thoughts.

She'd taken the box cutter from his hand, digging the blade into the hard wood floor so that a heart appeared beside him. She gave it horns and a little tail, the candlelight playing across her features as she grinned at him. She was a rarity herself, a diamond in the rough that he hadn't realized he'd been looking for until he found it. "Come on," she said coaxingly. "There are better uses for that perpetual grumpiness. More fun ones, too." She'd eased closer, tapered nails scratching lightly under his chin. "Release of aggression and all that."

Castiel reflexively smiled, blue eyes regarding her warmly. Forgivingly. "I don't think our company would appreciate the…" He searched for the word, speaking of course of the Winchesters housed in the adjoining room.

"Free show?" Meg supplied, her smile sharp and lovely in the dark. She toed his thigh with her foot invitingly. "We'll be quiet."

" _You'll_ be quiet?" echoed Castiel in amusement, trace amounts of disbelief lacing his tone as his eyebrows climbed for his scalp.

"And here I thought you liked my being vocal."

"My appreciation for your lack of inhibition would unlikely extend to Sam and Dean," he said with affection, contradicting his own resolve as he slipped closer to her.

"You'd better not be teasing," Meg muttered against his lips, gripping the front of his shirt tightly to prevent escape.

Castiel regretfully drew back, looking her in the eyes with a meager, repentant smile. "Wouldn't it be irresponsible?" With all that was out there intent on capturing them, killing them, eating them, or a combination of all three—it seemed unwise to indulge, given the risk of letting their guard down.

Meg nonetheless groaned at the deprivation, closing her eyes. He'd rebelled against _Heaven_ , but he couldn't take twenty minutes to scratch the itch? "I hate you."

Castiel's expression only showed further fondness at her petulance. "Should I pretend to believe that?"

Meg huffed an irritated growl. "All revved up and nowhere to go," she complained, sending him away with a shove.

Castiel's brow quirked, his expression one of mild interest. "I understand that one."

"Give the flying monkey a prize," Meg said, feigning exasperation but convincing neither of them. Well, with any luck, she could feed that hunger in other ways. "When did you last eat, anyway? Might as well load up on carbs now while there's nothing chewing on our necks. Let me see your bag."

"I ate this morning," he said dismissively, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

Meg frowned at him. "Yeah, sixteen hours ago. Where the hell has your appetite gone lately?" she muttered, rummaging in her own pack for what she'd found that day. " _Yum_. Beans and rice," she said with virile contempt, although she tossed the containers at him anyways. "Now we're talking," she said triumphantly then, holding up her prize for him to see.

Castiel's brow drew together distrustfully. It looked like a yellow brick. "What in hell is that?"

"It's a Twinkie, genius. Has a shelf life of like a hundred years." Meg looked eager for him to try it, Castiel just looked unnerved. She held it out to him insistently despite his reluctance. "Eat this, Castiel, or I'll shove it in your goddamn face."

He sighed, holding out his hand as though she were handing him a live grenade.

Meg watched as he peeled away the plastic wrapping, and then gave the spongy shape one last suspicious look before taking a bite. He chewed resignedly at first, and then his expression became thoughtful the longer he did so. That thoughtfulness turned inevitably to delight.

"This is… actually very good." Castiel's eyes had lit up, crinkling at their corners as he smiled. "Did you find any of that French dressing?"

Meg's face fell. "Seriously?"

His owlish stare was fixed on her face, unflinching and now very pointed. Silently, it communicated that he would not be taking another bite until she complied.

"You're going to _ruin_ that Twinkie. How do you expect me to be party to that?"

"You're the one who wanted me to eat," he said—annoyingly diplomatic, as usual.

Meg growled, shoving a hand back into her bag with unneeded force. "Fine. But I can't be held responsible for your Father hitting you with lightning for what you're about to do." Expelling a petulant huff, she flung the mustard packet at his chest which she was pretty sure he caught so deftly just to spite her. "And it's _French's_. Not French dressing."

"Thank you," he said, tearing it open and splurting it all over the unsuspecting snack cake.

Meg glared at the horrendous affront, a look of true disdain marring her body's face. "Fucking weirdo."

Castiel had this disgusting habit where he liked to put mustard on fucking everything. Meg was almost eighty percent certain he did it just to piss her off.

As he bit into the defiled Twinkie, he had the audacity to look as though he were back in Heaven, uttering soft moan that had Meg digging bloody little crescents into her palms. His eyes slid back open, falling on her almost slyly. "Would you like some?"

"Don't you come anywhere near me with that thing."

She pinned him down with her most severe expression, although Castiel wasn't intimidated. After interminable military service on heavenly battlefields, one sassy demon just wasn't very threatening.

"Meg, try it."

"You'd better back the hell up, because I really will shove it in your face."

Castiel was invading her personal space, holding what had once been a delicious Twinkie very near the danger zone in front of her face. "Meg, open your mouth."

She gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, I've heard that before."

"I've noticed you're most provocative when you're either bored or nervous. I actually find it endearing."

"You know what I _don't_ find endearing?" she retorted, pressing back against the wall in retreat, trying to escape his coercion. "Putting mustard on a fucking Twinkie." With her superior strength, she easily could have overpowered him, but she was laughing despite herself, hands pressed to keep him back although he skirted her frenzied attempts to do so.

"You've never tried it, Meg. How do you know you won't like it?" His free hand gripped both of hers, and his blue eyes were injected with laughter at her expense. Too often it was the other way around.

He _was_ doing this on purpose, the little shit! "I may be a hellspawn, but I _do_ have moral standards and _that_ , angel, is a pastry abomination."

"That's very dramatic," he chastised, one arm snaking around her waist to pull her in as she batted him away. Her jaw was jutted out obstinately, her fortitude a wall of imperishable resolve. Castiel abandoned all efforts then, leveling her with a devastating, doe-eyed stare. "Please try it, Meg. For me?"

_Oh hell_ , that face. Despite the intensity of it, Meg remained unmoved. "I do plenty of shit for you."

Castiel decided that discretion was the better part of valor and he didn't comment on just how many times Meg had demanded he bow to her whims. "That's true," he admitted, and for a moment she thought he'd conceded defeat. A smug exclamation of _ha!_ was just about to leave her parted lips at the apparent capitulation when suddenly he shoved the remainder of the treat into her mouth. "But then again, I did allow you to handcuff me to the bed last week."

Meg let out an undignified squeal as the loathed morsel of food invaded the sanctity of her taste buds. " _Ugh_ , it tastes like a dog shit on a pile of more shit!" With little other choice but to either stomach it down or spit it out—which felt too much like a surrender—Meg shoved against him, still reviled by the truly abhorrent taste that continued to haunt her. "I'm never having sex with you again."

Castiel actually laughed. "We'll see which of us adheres to that threat longer." He leaned in, kissing and curling his tongue over the evidence of his betrayal to sweep it from her face. "I'm culturing you towards new flavors," he murmured. She truly was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, surly expression and all.

"I'm gonna culture you in the flavor of groin kicks," Meg said frostily against his lips. What was most abhorrent of all was that, once the taste had robbed enough time from her tongue, it wasn't as entirely horrible as she made it out to be. She would, of course, never utter that revelation aloud.

Castiel moved up her body to capture her mouth once more and Meg shelved her annoyance for the time being. Still, she tried to decide whether to be outraged for the underhanded move or mollified that he was out of the doldrums and out of his mind, instead. Not to mention the fact that his underhandedness always secretly impressed her.

When he drew back, Meg gave him her best disapproving glare but his chagrined smile and unspoken apology won her over, softening the damage. Her eyes sparkled at him. "Next time find another culinary guinea pig, you lunatic."

The lazy insult rolled right off his back.

The gratitude at her willingness to indulge him was evident in his face. To appease her, Castiel dug into the other morsels of food they'd either packed or scavenged along the road. He felt again that familiar, hollow pit in his stomach that never seemed to want to be filled, but ignored it for the time being. The rice had little taste to begin with, so he was able to go through the motions without much given thought.

"Anymore sigils, or will what I've done suffice?" he asked.

Meg gave her shoulders an experimental roll. "Stings like a bitch, so we're good. Stupid inconvenience, though. I should have just told Dean to suck it. I'm not his personal Betty Crocker."

"I'm glad you didn't tell him that. I… don't like it, but it's important we find this Blade." Castiel's features were drawn at the reminder of what they were chasing, whatever short-lived appetite he'd had now deserting him completely. His eyes fell back on her, conveying esteem. "I appreciate you coming."

"Didn't do it for humanity. I try to avoid the good deeds." Meg tossed him a wink, lips curving into one of her impish smirks. "I imagine it's habit-forming."

Castiel smiled at her softly. "I know you didn't do it for them."

"You'll have to carve me up again tomorrow night, Hannibal." She glanced back over her shoulder at the scabbing wounds. She could already feel them starting to heal, despite her efforts to impede the process.

"What if we cured you?"

The words lanced through her like the bite of a blade, stunning her into silence. Marauded through the space between them, innocent but deadly in their own way, and it set her back a bit. She knew of course why he said it—if the catalyst for other demons tracking her was in fact her own demonic power, why not remove that catalyst? He'd said it so calmly, so objectively, but Castiel's eyes spoke volumes and he stared at her intensely, knowing what such a thing would mean for her. For them.

His eyes were completely serious, revealing what she already knew in that he would never make light of such matters or her concerns over them. He was asking because it would be her choice alone. Her decision.

The sudden intensity of it had Meg wanting to look anywhere but at him, and a haunted feeling descended over her bones. She looked away, out into the night, taking a moment to collect herself. That was another thing—those five simple words should not have had such an effect on her.

"No," she said, speaking not to him, but to the stars overhead, to herself. Already she harbored too much guilt over the things she'd done in Hell and on earth, and being in proximity to Castiel—especially when he'd had his grace—it did things to her. It changed her in ways that left her feeling ruined and yet made new, shedding light on the blackest corners of her twisted soul, or at least what remained of it.

It made her more… _human_.

Meg couldn't possibly cope with the mortal guilt that such a permanent transformation would provoke from her. It would destroy her, she was sure. _No_.

Castiel was quiet. He let his fingers drift over her hands, bottomless gaze combing over her carefully. Meg's avoidant eyes fought a much different war now, one no one else could see but that he could inherently feel. "Alright," he conceded softly, nodding his head in understanding. He regretted the pained expression she wore now, knowing that he had inadvertently been the one to put it there.

Reluctantly, Meg's gaze eased back to his. "You didn't put up much of a fight," she remarked.

"Did you want me to?"

"You could have genied me back as a human," she said instead, needing to escape that question. She never did realize either how much she needed to know why he didn't.

His expression was serene in the face of her restiveness, his voice holding the weight of unadorned sincerity. "I like you the way you are."

Meg gave a self-deprecating snort, and her defiance of that was fast. "What, _broken_?"

"You wouldn't be you without the thorns."

"More poetry," she riposted irritably, averting her eyes at the startling confession that moved her in ways she refused to acknowledge. She looked stubborn and unwilling to talk again and he sighed.

"You asked."

With a delicate grunt, Meg was determined to drop the subject. But Castiel was Castiel, always and never anything less.

"Why did you sell your soul, Meg?"

"Who says I sold it? Maybe I'm just a bad person." Meg crossed her arms over her chest, staring down at the heart she'd carved into the floorboards with distaste, determined to close herself off from his prodding questions. Damn it, she didn't want to go through this again. He already knew the story—whether or not he remembered it was no fault of hers. But his piercing gaze hit her like a truth serum, a wrecking ball against her defenses. The sense of déjà vu put her on edge, itching to smoke out of her body despite that such a move would be utterly childish.

Castiel continued to stare at her, not accepting her diversion tactic for a moment, and Meg sighed. The instinctive openness she felt around him could sometimes be ridiculous, and the way he constantly disarmed her with his transparent warmth was disconcerting.

"It was for a man. He was dying, I saved him. Happy?"

"What happened?" he asked.

Castiel had that look of compassion he often wore for her, wordlessly conveying his calmness and surety to her. The graveled tone brought with it a small measure of comfort, and Meg shrugged. "Left me for a prettier model?" she tried to joke, but the way her voice caught belied the lighthearted barb and her facile smile fooled no one. "I don't know. I never saw him again."

Still, Castiel wanly tried to smile at her attempt at lightness, but it was unconvincing. He saw her as she bore down brutally on the unwanted and repellent emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Saw her efforts to lock them back away so that she could return to pithy teasing words and sharp smiles. But instead there was a quiet sort of sadness dwelling somewhere in the chambers she often kept hidden. "I have not met anymore more remarkable, more _beautiful_ , so he must have been a fool."

The concept of beauty to angels greatly differed than what humanity often found captivating. They were created beyond such limitations, though that in turn often left them limited. But, like any creature, they could be mesmerized. Entranced. It was a trait that could sometimes leave them either greatly shortsighted, or deeply intuitive. They were chaotic because grace was pure energy, pure Creation. They were wild and untamed and yet so perfectly composed. When he'd looked at Meg as an angel, he saw before him a similar beast. Instead of that familiar knot of energy, there was a tangle of thorns that was not so unlike his own chaos. He had the universe in his makeup, she was a byproduct of lost hope. Both were inherently empty.

Castiel, as an angel, had found beauty in the imperfect. And he was hopelessly drawn to her from the start. As a human, his fall was at last complete because he was constantly seeing her in new ways that had eluded him before. Castiel had looked on Meg through both filters—eternity and transience—and each glimpse had left him irrevocably consumed.

It would be his greatest downfall. It had cursed him, damned him, but hers was the only beauty he saw remaining in the world, and he would surely burn because of it. Because Meg… Meg had left him marked in ways there was no washing clean.

He looked quietly outraged on her behalf, the words still ringing in the air between them. Meg sighed, her gaze falling away in defeat. "You're an idiot." He knew what she looked like. Even if he could no longer see the face of her monster, he sure as hell had to remember it.

But Castiel was as mulish as he was nice to look at. "I know your real name, do you really think I don't know your human face?"

Both were unspeakably beautiful to him, and though he sometimes found himself losing traces of what she truly looked like from his memory after so long being deprived, he would never forget what the sight of it had made him feel, the passion it so often drew out of him. The face she was born with stood out to him as well, a familiar visage he couldn't recall finding but had always been there in the back of his mind, reminding him that, once, his demon had been filled with hope. With humanity.

He knew her _real_ face. The face she wore before being disfigured by thorns, before hellfire, and before she'd picked up the blade and spilled her first drop of blood in that wretched pit.

At those words, Meg's features softened, hard lines falling away. Her eyes darted back to his only to find them riveted to her face, and she looked almost regretful. Perhaps even guilty. Those impenetrable defenses broke down again, leaving behind a _raw_ , vulnerable husk. A thought came to her and she frowned, an all-too-familiar stab of pain piercing her chest. "When you say things like that…" she whispered, hating and needing him all at once. Wishing desperately she could tell him how close he was, how he was treading right over history without even realizing it.

She didn't like talking about her innermost feelings or what plagued her so deeply. The first time a person finally opened up and confessed such things it was an instant relief and she remembered that feeling like the drug it was. She'd felt lighter, a little more in control. It became addicting, confiding in him. Soon enough she'd been spilling her guts about every little insecurity or fear she'd ever had, but it was a trap. Because by talking about them, those insecurities multiplied and swarmed her like locusts. As soon as she'd confessed one, she found herself tripping over another. And then she'd realized that the one person she had ever confided in and trusted so completely had started looking at her differently. Soon, that realization became the very thing that haunted her most.

But then… Castiel had always looked at her differently. No one ever looked at her the way he did—whether she was human, demon, or somewhere trapped between.

Yet she may as well have never confided in him at all.

"What?" Castiel asked softly, his head falling to the side. He watched her armor as it started to crack, and she allowed him to reach up and brush his thumb across her marred cheek without flinching, letting him try to heal what lay underneath with his magic touch, if only for his own peace of mind. There was still trace evidence of damage the demon bomb had wrought, and he frowned when the candlelight revealed it.

"You should've found me then," she murmured, shivering a bit despite that she wasn't supposed to be affected by the cold. He saw a shadow of pain race across her face, and then it was gone.

"I barely knew myself then, Meg." Remorse twisted the words into a sad arrangement. He watched the combination of shame, discomfort, and reluctance as it crept over her expression in varying degrees, regret making his chest ache.

He wouldn't have been much help to her at all. He was a grain of sand in the desert, then. In any case… he was here for her now. And he'd be the one to do it, should the day ever come. He'd be the one to cure Meg. Not Dean, not Sam. His blood. His voice. His confession.

A new solemnity stretched between them and Castiel reached out to link their hands to maintain that connection. "It's a wonder you remember being human," he remarked in admiration.

"I remember a lot of things," she muttered, unwilling to look at him now. "None of them seem to matter."

She was pulling herself back together, retreating from him as she often did. But there was an ominous knell to those words that had never been there when she'd distanced herself before, and it gave Castiel pause. It seemed to always be specific topics that triggered her withdrawal, and he didn't understand it. So often lately it felt as if there was something she was keeping from him. He'd always assumed it was simply the byproduct of her emotional reticence, which was expected and something he'd long ago embraced. But at the hooded guilt in her eyes she wasn't quite quick enough to conceal from him, Castiel felt a strange flicker of doubt pass through him. A small voice in the furthest place of his mind became suddenly restless.

_Be_ _careful_ , it whispered.

Mortified at the thought, Castiel mentally hurled it away. He'd only ever trusted a small handful of people in this world, and even fewer of them he trusted unfailingly. So when that poisonous, little eddy of doubt rose into his mind about her without warning it left him with a burgeoning sense of panic. Why would he even think such a thing? Meg was trustworthy, of course she was. She'd proven herself time and again. Castiel also knew her like no one else, and that did give him certain insights. That same voice reminded him of this, and he withheld a shudder.

It was the threat of Lucifer making him doubt, he thought. It was the stress that was getting to him, the constant strain of living in a fallen world that was unsettling them both. It was her erratic regression and that demon's seed of discord from earlier that night. The risk Abaddon posed, the threat of being found and captured—that's what was eating at her. His own deal was likely adding to that worry—Meg had never been quiet about her feelings on the matter. The war of Croatoan was making them both desperate and afraid. That's all it was.

That's _all_ it was.

"What?"

Her voice pulled him back from the brooding desert that had swallowed him, and Castiel started a bit. "Nothing," he replied, mentally shaking himself of the sinister voice.

Meg looked doubtful at his muttered denial, her dark eyes sweeping over him studiously. He surprised her then.

Castiel leaned forward, regardless of that withdrawal and despite such off-putting thoughts, taking her face in both hands and pressing a lingering, tender kiss to her lips. If only to ease his own peace of mind and reaffirm that she was his and that he was a fool for ever doubting. "Sleep," he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "I don't sleep."

"Rest, then. I'll keep watch."

Two dark eyebrows climbed for her scalp. "Oh, you can sense Croats now?"

"I can relieve you for an hour."

"Wish you'd relieve me in other ways for an hour."

Castiel chuckled—a rare, crooked smile splitting his face. "Don't tempt me."

He punctuated his words by hooking a finger into the waistband of her jeans beneath the belt, giving a gentle tug. The corners of her mouth flickered slyly. "I _am_ a demon, although you seem determined to forget it."

He delivered another chaste kiss to her lips, descending beside her and feeling much of that residual tension finally drain away. "As determined as you are to forget that I'm human," he replied, voice betraying the careworn fatigue that was settling heavily over him.

Her fingers carded thoughtfully through his hair, playing softly at the dark ends. She watched his face for a time as he stared out the window and into the night, reflecting silently to herself.

Meg never told him that she would butcher any and every hellhound that might come for him. That if one slipped past her by chance, she would tear the basement apart. Unleash her own hell on Perdition until she found him. She knew of damnation, and she'd make sure he never would, if it was the last thing she ever did. Castiel would not become like her.

She died for him once. She'd do it again—a hundred times over.

* * *

_slings and arrows are killing me inside_   
_maybe I can't accept the life that's mine_   
_the sun shines and I can't avoid the light_   
_ashes to ashes and dust to dust_

* * *

The sun would rise in a few hours and they'd move again. It was dangerous to travel at night—hell, it was dangerous to travel at all. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Sam questioned this course of action and the decisions leading up to it. Knowing what they did now, they needed the Blade. Without a doubt. Abaddon could not be allowed to raise Lucifer. Sam felt a sick churning in his gut at the very thought, his fingers tightening over his weapon so hard that his knuckles splashed white. Memories of the cage assaulted him, haunted him, tormented him. He cringed away from the mental images, needing them to disappear. He adjusted his weapon, holding it tighter against his shoulder, needing to stand up, needing to move.

Sam got to his feet, not caring that his brother barely acknowledged his exit. The logical, rational part of his brain knew that if he was to turn his head, he would see Dean there, guarded stare fixed out the window, but part of him was unconvinced. That part knew that if he turned his head, there would be nothing there. No Dean at all.

As he wandered the halls, his thoughts turned to the camp. Dean had left Ezekiel and Risa in charge. Charlie and Garth were handling the runs, and Sam had promised to keep his silence over the fact that Kevin had started tagging along with them. The prophet wasn't a child anymore. He was a man. A young man determined to make his own decisions and to pull his weight. Kevin wanted to make a difference, he wanted a voice. Sam couldn't deny him that even if he wanted to.

He paused at the threshold of the North facing room, the sight therein catching his eye. "Hey," he muttered in greeting, offering a slight nod.

"Salutations, Bullwinkle," Meg returned amicably.

Castiel was wedged into the corner, fast asleep against the wall, weapon still in hand. There was an old mattress tossed haphazardly on the floor which they sat on, and Meg was leaning at the windowsill, keeping solitary vigil. Her feet rested in Castiel's lap, and Sam saw the dried blood on her bare shoulders from the spell work.

Meg followed the hunter's eyes to her companion and gave a quiet chuckle. "Thinks he's a badass. Poor bastard lasted maybe five minutes before he conked out." Sam smiled a little, comforted somehow by the exchange. Meg lost some of hers, though, eyes drifting back to Castiel almost achingly. "He pushes himself too much sometimes."

She wasn't the only one who often forgot he was human. Castiel seemed to continually reject his new limitations, usually to the point of injury or serious health repercussions. Sam saw the genuine worry displayed there, worn features softening almost imperceptibly. "You really care about him, don't you?"

That caught her attention. Meg glanced back in his direction, some of that spark returning. "You still need to ask?"

No, he supposed he didn't. Sam felt the beginnings of a real smile take hold, one of relief. Meg wasn't going to leave Castiel. If she hadn't by now, what exactly were they all worrying about?

Meg had stayed behind. She had told Sam to go, and she'd fought Crowley alone so that Cas would get the chance to escape. She might have included he and Dean in her final goodbye, but Sam knew damn well that Meg didn't give two shits about them. She'd stayed behind for one person, and one alone.

Sam thought that Meg understood what it meant to find someone you were willing to break all the rules for. Someone who could make you want to change everything about what you were, who brought out something better in you. She knew she was going to die, but she'd gone with a smile, with peace, because she knew it meant Castiel was going to live.

"What the hell," Meg muttered then, really surprising him. "Got your back, too, Samson. Neither one of us is going to let the Big Bad Wolf get his claws into you again."

A dark eyebrow arched for his hairline. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'll be the one to kill the son of a bitch if he crawls back out of his hole."

The sheer _conviction_ behind the declaration was powerful, and Sam shook his head, surprised and not quite believing it. "You'd destroy your creator?"

"I watched him destroy something of mine for months," she said quietly, eyes straying back to Castiel. Maybe he didn't remember the torment he'd faced day and night with visions of the devil, but she did. "Crowley, the pompous prick, he was right. Castiel was right. Lucifer never gave a damn about me. About any of us."

Sam deliberated over her words, weighing the revelation there with a pensive frown. As much as he believed Meg was in Castiel's corner, Sam had witnessed the sight of her fighting for the other side. _Believing_ in the other side. _Loyalty and love_ , she'd told him once—the primal motivators behind her every action in the old days when she'd been one of the most ruthless enemies they'd ever opposed.

Meg might have loved Castiel, but she was still a demon.

"Someone might think you were playing both sides, Meg," Sam remarked, not kindly, not unkindly.

After all, one could smile and smile and still be a villain.

If she was offended by that, she didn't show it. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see then, won't you?"

Sam smirked at that, almost appreciating the banter as it took his mind off of other things. He'd seen too much to _really_ doubt Meg, but the uncertainty and longstanding distrust was still there, despite any mutual respect they harbored towards each other now.

Meg turned reflective then, eyes combing over her sleeping companion. "If it came down to it, who's side do you think he'd choose?" she wondered aloud.

There was no malice to the question, just simple curiosity. Sam considered that, not entirely sure himself these days.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

Together, they watched the sun break over the horizon.

* * *

_there was a brighter day where I could view the world_   
_without the sorrows that I've known_   
_now it's a different place_   
_my heart's grown colder_   
_crawling closer, so save your kiss goodbye_   
_even though the innocence is scarred_   
_what if I could feel, what if I could see again_

* * *

When the first fingers of dawn licked at the sky, Dean felt a faraway sense of clarity. Something that had been stirring in him for some time buzzed incessantly at the back of his thoughts. As his eyes roamed over the marching hills intertwined in the distance, he felt an outlying pull. Something inside him called out to his prize. Somehow, he knew the Blade was his. And that as much as it belonged to him, he belonged to it. His eyes flickered over the grim daybreak beyond the window and what awaited there.

Unbidden, new feelings replaced that certainty.

Dean felt dread. He felt anger, he felt _afraid_. Memories of that day in Stull Cemetery played in a loop, branded into the backs of his eyes so that there was nowhere for him escape to. Sam—killing Cas, killing Bobby. Nearly killing _him_. Except it wasn't Sam, not at all—but then, suddenly, it _was_.

Hearing the words: _It's okay, Dean_.

Watching is brother disappear into that dark pit and the earth swallowing him up as though he'd never been there at all.

One year without Sam.

One year knowing his little brother was suffering unimaginable torment in Hell, in Lucifer's _cage,_ alongside the devil himself.

_Never again_ , Dean vowed.

Abaddon would not take Sam. And she sure as _hell_ would not being raising Lucifer back into the world.

The First Blade would soon be is, and he would put a stop to it. To all of it. All those sons a bitches' best laid plans—he would tear it down around them and he'd do it with a smile. What else did he have to lose?

Dean saw red. Maybe this was the motivation he needed—another pissant threatening his family. Another demon with a scheme. Another monster looking to set the world on fire. Well, this was _his_ world. And if anybody was gonna light the match, it'd be Dean fucking Winchester. He had almost a century's worth of demons to purge. Forty on earth, thirty in Hell, and however little more he had left.

The First Blade _would_ bring him that clarity he so desperately needed. Fingers curling into fists at his sides, Dean could already feel the phantom weight of it in his hand.

* * *

_lose your faith in a world_   
_the truth you're not supposed to know_   
_walk the wire_   
_with all I am, I stand alone_   
_in fields that I have grown_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"How's your side of the camp, Rees?"

Risa looked surprised he even asked, though her answer was nearly robotic. "Good, for now. We could use more bedding. Pillows."

"Bedding?"

"Yeah, you know. For _sleep_? Did you forget what that was?"

The sarcasm was positively dripping with hostility, but Dean bit back the retort that swelled on his tongue and conceded defeat. "Fine. I can give you some guys. Take Donovan and one of the angels."

"I will go," Ezekiel offered, extending the woman a favorable nod.

"Uh, thank you." Risa seemed grateful of that, unsure how to take it. Something akin to mutual respect passed between them silently. She didn't quite know how to behave around angels as a general handicap. It wasn't that she didn't care for them—quite the opposite. She just couldn't help but silently revel in awe whenever she was around one. Couldn't wrap her head around the fact that they existed or that they were so… tangible. Cas had been an angel, she'd heard, but he was easy to talk to. Well, on a sociable level. Sometimes she had no idea what the hell was coming out of his mouth and it was clear the sentiment was mutual. The only one who seemed to have the patience and aptitude in dealing with him was that demon. But Risa wasn't touching that with a ten foot pole.

Ezekiel, having only recently been introduced to him, seemed approachable and ultimately very kind. He was good to have in a fight—that much was proven the week before when he'd singlehandedly leveled a small bevy of Croats that had wandered too near the camp. He hadn't outright smote them, but Risa remembered seeing that blur of holy steel as it tore through one throat after another and thinking she would never forget the sight in a hundred years. Her own curiosity betrayed her in that she often found herself contemplating what it would have been like to see him in full form. But angels nowadays were apparently too affected by the Fall to accomplish such feats without physical consequences. She harbored envy for Dean and Sam—having gotten to see such displays, and so often. Further, Risa was most envious because maybe her fiancée would still be alive if she'd had an angel, too.

"So…" Dean cut in. "The reason I brought you two here. Got a big job coming up and me and the other bigwigs won't be around for a couple weeks. Leaving you and Zeke in charge."

Risa rolled her eyes. "Shit, thanks."

"Hey. Would you rather be an errand girl?" He stared at her in utter frustration, but his anger seemed to have leached from him. "I picked you because you're smart and can handle yourself."

_Because I trust you_ , went the unspoken, though Dean would never utter those words aloud ever again.

Risa maintained her detached silence, her impassive stare seeming to say: _Spare me_.

Dean reined in yet another mordant remark, determined to keep this short summit impersonal and direct. "While you're out, stock up on weapons, because we'll be taking a lot of them with us. Gonna need more than usual."

A single dark eyebrow raised dryly for her hairline. "Fine. Are we done here?"

Things were still tense between them. They had yet to talk out what had happened, and Dean doubted they ever would. Truthfully, he didn't really want to. He didn't have the time or the patience, especially when they were so close to finding the Blade and to putting a stop to everything that was currently wrong with the world as they now knew it.

And yet… her attitude raised his hackles and left him with a feeling of angry indignance. "Sure. Go spread some of those menstrual toxins over the rest of the camp. I think you missed the East sector."

"Asshole," she muttered, the slam of the door punctuating her departure.

Dean seemed to tense up like a snake before it struck, but he stared at the space where Risa had been long after she was gone, a muscle working in his jaw. Ezekiel observed the exchange with a somewhat out-of-place curiosity. He wondered if this was what _pining_ looked like. If it was, Dean Winchester wore it like crown.

"She seemed very upset."

"Yeah, she's pissed at me still," Dean muttered, digging the bottle of whiskey he'd been nursing earlier out of the cabinet. Unlike his brother before him, Dean offered his company none of the bottle's contents.

"Do you love her?" Ezekiel wondered.

Dean nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

Ezekiel seemed somewhat abashed that he'd made some sort of faux pas, and the expression reminded Dean too much of Cas. "I suppose that was a little out of turn for me to ask."

"A little," Dean grunted, but he looked mildly amused behind the glass he held in his hand. "You're about as shitty at reading the room as your brother is."

Ezekiel smiled at that, rueful. "He means well."

"Yeah, sure. He always does." Dean took a long pull before pouring himself another helping. Additionally, he wondered why the angel was still there, but figuring so long as he was, he'd derive some long sought after answers that had been eluding him. "How do you feel about him hooking up with a demon?"

Ezekiel frowned at the implication there. "Castiel is his own man. His _decisions_ are his own."

Dean's regard of that sentiment was derisive and critical. "Some brother you are."

"Being an older brother does not indicate authority over your siblings, Dean," said the angel somberly. The low notes of his voice were disapproving, but ultimately benign. "You think Castiel's mistakes are your brother's mistakes, except Castiel is not your brother. He is mine. And Sam is not the man he once was, either. He's grown to become something truly venerable. He has found purpose, Dean." Ezekiel's eyes were solemn, insistent in that quiet, powerful way he had. "My brother loves this demon woman, and I am glad for him. He has found something virtually _unattainable_ in this fallen world, and... I believe she is good for him. They complement one another. He is a civilizing influence, and she challenges him in ways Castiel has never been challenged. And while he may have been your friend for seven years, he has been my brother for several thousand. Do not forget that."

"Yeah, well…" Dean looked away, a shadow of anger skirting across drawn features. "You don't know Meg like I do."

"That is true," Ezekiel tactfully conceded. "Although I do not think you know her as Castiel does, either."

Well. That was certainly true.

"You have a right to your anger, I'm certain of that. But... consider that Castiel has nothing else to hold on to."

Dean relinquished the dispute with a healthy guzzle from the bottle itself. He stared fixedly at its contents as he swallowed down the burning liquid, thinking that perhaps he could find answers in the murky amber surface. A peculiar openness befell him then, perhaps surprising them both. "You want to know if I love Risa? I… told her I did."

Ezekiel's head canted slightly to the side. Dark eyes puzzled over the quandary. "Seems a terrible thing, to say something you do not mean," he said quietly. "Why did you do this?"

A humorless bark of laughter gusted out of the hunter and he shook his head, running a hand over his face. "Believe it or not, it wasn't self-serving. I just… I don't think I even know what love feels like anymore. Don't think I'm capable of it anymore." He turned away from his company, moving to fetch another bottle when the one he had became empty.

"Have you told her so?"

"No."

"Perhaps you should."

Dean glanced over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. "You've sure got a lot to say."

Ezekiel smirked. "Guardian by nature. You'll have to forgive me."

The hunter's brow drew together, his understanding of that unclear. "Guardian, huh? Thought that was just another manmade bedtime story? Fluffy wings, Michael Landon, all that BS. Cas gave me the whole soldier speech years ago."

Ezekiel seemed amused by the cynicism rather than offended, although the mention of Castiel in conjunction with it brought him regret. "Some angels are guardians, though not every human has one. There are special cases. It's…" the angel frowned, looking lost in dismal reflection, "an outdated practice. Very few guardians even acknowledge their bonds, not since before the dark ages." Ezekiel appeared deeply sad. As though pieces of himself were missing and no longer within his grasp. "Very few would even know their bond if they met them. So many of us have forgotten what it means. Or have been made to."

"Not you, though?"

Ezekiel shook his head. "All my charges have since passed, though I will never forget them. What it meant to protect them, watch over them."

"What, so… guardians love their bonds?"

"In different ways. An angel would do anything for its charge. The human is the beginning and the end for them, viewed as infinitely precious and to be protected and cared after at all costs. The connection is pure devotion."

Somewhat absorbed now, Dean asked, "Why stop assigning them?"

Ezekiel's expression was quietly outraged. "Our superiors thought it distracting. Too much time spent dedicated to single ephemeral lives. To Earth, instead of Heaven."

"Huh," Dean murmured, intrigued despite himself. "That sucks."

"It did. _Suck_." Ezekiel sighed, surprising Dean when he moved to acquire a glass of his own, holding it out in indication that the hunter should fill it with alcohol. "So many souls left without aid, without guidance. It was devastating to them, yes, though they never knew what they had lost. But to _us_ … guardians would readily die for their charges, and to sit back and do nothing as they suffered… it was not unlike torture."

_You cannot save people. You can only love them,_ went the saying.

But he was not built to do nothing. He was not wired to observe. He was a Protector, not a Watcher. Ezekiel looked appraisingly at the hunter, his powerful presence conveying amity. "You have a guardian heart, Dean. I can see it, no matter your attempts to bury it. Your purpose is to protect. You are a shield." At Dean's derisive snort, Ezekiel chuckled. "You deny it through words and actions, but it's still there. Something like that does not go away just because the earth fell to desolation. If anything, it's made that calling stronger."

Dean spread his hands, shrugging dispassionately. "That's a nice theory, Zeke. But I can promise you that all I care about is finding that Blade and sticking it through that demon bitch's heart."

Ezekiel's eyes were sad, but a small smile played at his mouth nonetheless. "You may surprise yourself."

* * *

_tonight I will bring you home_   
_I will save you from yourself_   
_wash the old from the sand_   
_burn the rough drafts from yesterday_   
_take this life by the hand_   
_release the young man trapped inside_   
_grip your weapon of choice_

* * *

PRESENT, MISSOURI

Nightfall was approaching when the jeep pulled up the dirt driveway of the coordinates gleaned from their location spell. As they all got out of the vehicle, Sam was the first to speak.

"How the hell is this place still standing?" he wondered, confused by their surroundings.

Dean shared the sentiment. He scrutinized the area almost angrily, distrust swirling in his eyes and a sixth sense telling him something wasn't adding up. "No fortifications, _nothing_."

The remark was somewhat disjointed, those eyes constantly roaming, scanning the encroaching darkness around them covertly, looking for any movement and straining his ears for any unexpected sound. There were crops in the field, perfectly kept—the site seemingly _untouched_ by the devastation Abaddon had wrought over the last two years. The grass was green, the foliage healthy, the quaint farmhouse utterly intact and looking as though it were lived in and not vacated or quarantined like every other house in the country. And there were fucking bees everywhere.

Castiel frowned, shooing away a buzzing insect that darted in front of his face. His brow sat wrinkled and confounded on his forehead at what they were seeing, and the bees were as much an oddity as they were an _impossibility_. He found little enjoyment to them now, despite the brief sense of nostalgia he felt. He glanced at Meg, about to comment on the matter to her.

But the demon had stopped in her tracks, hackles raised, eyes slicking to black. She actually looked afraid. "Shit."

All eyes darted to her. "What?" Sam prompted, alarmed by the shift.

"Should have known." Meg was beginning to panic, losing her nerve. She _knew_ she'd felt something dark when they were driving up. Very _, execrably_ dark. Castiel was already at her side, concern washing over his face because _fuck_ , Meg never got scared.

" _What_ , Meg?" demanded Dean, his patience long departed.

"The Blade's with its owner, genius," she snapped. " _Shit_."

Sam looked between the both of them, at a loss and feeling the little hairs on the back of his neck rise in dread. "Who's its owner?"

Castiel had lost most of his color, his blue eyes darting to Meg's face in alarm. "The Father of Murder."

Dean shook his head, not comprehending their sudden anxiety. "Who the hell is that?"

" _Cain_ , you jackass," Meg hissed, the words settling over them all like an anchor. Her black eyes flicked back to normal, and she looked around in worry, as though she thought they should make a quick exit while they still could.

Sam was taken aback, stunned dismay filling his expression. "As in _Cain and Abel_?"

"Doesn't change anything," said Dean, ignoring their heeds. Brash determination had flooded his countenance, making him unreachable to protest. "We came here for a reason."

"And what reason might that be?" came a new voice.

The foursome turned, startled, to find a weathered-looking man regarding them with grim disapproval. His beard was graying in places, his frown cutting like hard slate over gravel. He was tall enough to look Dean in the eyes with a glacier cold stare that hid a thousand buried secrets beneath their blue surface.

Dean felt an immediate, heinous pull, and he knew then in that moment that he was condemned.

* * *

_all is numb, I've been lost too long_   
_my fate's been mistakenly chosen_   
_I've done you wrong_   
_where lies are spread wide open_   
_and ties are not so strong_   
_the place you'll never find me_   
_I've already gone_

* * *

"If you're so scared of him, zap out of here."

The four travelers sat, somewhat uncomfortably, on one of the couches in the home's furnished living room.

"What, and leave my angel?" Meg retorted at the surly hunter. She shook her head, fingernail picking anxiously at a loose thread over one of the cushions. "My heart didn't grow three sizes, smartass. I couldn't zap out of here even if I wanted to. Cain's doing something to me."

Beside her, Castiel took that revelation with evident unease. "You're blocked?"

"More or less."

"How do you get unblocked?" Sam wondered from the opposite end, considering their options.

"Fiber helps," Meg replied snidely, earning a scowl from the larger hunter. When he was ignored, Sam sniffed and sat back into the cushions, staring ahead petulantly.

"Look," Dean began, sounding peeved. "I don't give a shit whether you're stuck here or not. As long as you _are_ here, make yourself useful and give us some backstory."

"You're such a little bitch these days," Meg offhandedly remarked, ignoring his answering glower.

"Would you two stop?" Castiel muttered, looking irritated with both of them. He had personally witnessed many of the unspeakable exploits carried out by their host. Some things were still foggy, a mortal obstruction redacting somewhere in his mind, but what he did remember was nothing short of carcinogenic holocaust. _With the jawbone of an ass, I have slain a thousand men_. That was not literary flair or flowery exposition. It was brutal verbatim. They would do well to tread lightly.

Before Dean could switch his aggression to a new target, Meg cut him off. "After Cain killed Abel, he became a demon."

Dean looked at her, thinking he'd heard wrong as suspicion painted over his face. "What do you mean, _became_ a demon?"

Meg did not let him down lightly. "I mean he became the deadliest demon to walk the face of the earth. That includes yours truly, and other players like Lilith and Alistair. Cain killed thousands. The best at being the worst. Sort of admired him for that. But then he just… I don't know, disappeared. Everyone thought he was dead. Or hoped he was."

"Any of you keep bees?" Cain appeared unannounced at the room's entryway, startling them a bit. He held a tray of tea in his hands and now wore an unnervingly affable smile. "They're such noble creatures. Very relaxing."

When no one immediately replied and their host regarded them with narrowed eyes, Castiel spoke up. "I did, once."

Cain was intrigued as he set down his tray, taking a seat opposite them in the single chair. "And you stopped. Why?"

Castiel looked reluctant to answer that, and maybe a little like the answer troubled him to admit aloud. "Bees are, as you said… noble. Peaceful. I am not."

"Not anymore," Cain agreed at length, eyeing him studiously. "I won't dispute that." He sat back in his seat, reflective now. His cold eyes combed over his visitors, and then he directed his gaze to the right where a glass display case housed a small portion of his many hives, the bees therein working tirelessly. "They're dying, you know," he remarked dimly. "I think I may hold the last remaining few. Without bees, mankind will cease to exist. Won't be long, now." Cain took a moment, mulling silently over something indiscernible before he seemed to snap back into the room, looking at each of them in turn where they sat. "So…" There was an almost menacing edge to his voice now. "What are two Winchesters, a demon, and a fallen angel doing at my house?"

"You know who we are?" Dean surmised.

Cain looked vaguely insulted. "I'm retired. I'm not dead. What I don't know is why you're looking for me."

"Yes you do," Meg countered, the look in her eyes challenging him to deny it.

He said nothing for a long time, meeting her stare unwaveringly and with an intensity that set her on edge. "How did you find me?"

"We're looking for the weapon the archangels used to kill the Knights of Hell," Dean explained, drawing Cain's attention. "The First Blade."

"We need it to kill a Knight," Sam elaborated.

Dean's visage darkened, the atmosphere falling quiet and tense as he spoke. "Abaddon."

Cain considered the news with solemn deliberation, visibly registering the name. His thumb worked latently at the ring he wore on his left hand, the silver catching the light.

The tension was overwrought mainly with the notion that this parley could go south in so many different ways. If Cain refused to play ball, not only was this mission a calamitous failure, but all hope for stopping Abaddon would be quashed in one fell swoop. The sanctity of their entire campaign rested on the shoulders of the infamous Firstborn, who looked about as likely to help them as a Meg was to sprout wings and a halo.

"We get it, you're retired," she butt in. "We're not here to get between you and the demonic AARP."

That got her some looks.

"It's bad out there," Sam said, trying to appeal to the man in whatever way he could. "We're just looking to even the odds."

"I am aware what is happening out there," Cain replied quietly, unmoved. His eyes fell on inexplicably on Dean. "This is a ruthless world. One must be ruthless to cope with it."

"We _need_ the Blade," Dean bit out, his patience slipping. Three months, and that bitch was going to fry the planet for good. Three months, and his brother was dead. Three months without the weapon meant Abaddon fucking won and this was all for _nothing_. Dean couldn't let that happen. He _wouldn't_. No matter who he had to kill, they weren't leaving until he had that weapon gripped tight in his hand.

" _One last time_. How did you find me?"

"We didn't," Castiel answered. "A location spell we performed was for the Blade."

"Happy accident," Meg said sunnily, her expression tight.

Cain seemed to think the matter over. "Does anyone else know you're here?"

"No," Dean said immediately.

Cain turned to him, appearing oddly endeared by the move.

"There were demons tracking us," Meg put in, as though it were nothing. "Following me. Clarence here carved me up like a New Age turkey though, so we should have lost them." At Dean's scathing glare, she rolled her eyes. "He knows you're lying, jackass."

Surprising them all, the tone of their host took on a measure of adieu. "Well, it has been a pleasure having company. Especially you, Amara. Castiel. But once a century is enough for me." Cain stood, regarding them all with weary negligence. "You can let yourselves out."

As he walked away, Dean shot indignantly to his feet, storming after him. "Hey, listen, pal—I'm not leaving here without the Blade!"

Cain shook his head, turning to him with an almost fond smile. The bold, capricious, and quite unbridled hunter he'd heard so much about had not disappointed in the least. He was exactly what Cain had imagined. "You have quite a reputation, Dean. I see the part about you being brave rings true."

"Abaddon is the last Knight of Hell. She's responsible for this shitstorm we're living in. I kill her, maybe things get better, maybe they don't. But at least that bitch will be dead. And if you're out of the game, what the hell do you care if she dies?"

Cain aimed a nod over Dean's shoulder. "If your demon friend here were so inclined, she'd have told you that I _trained_ the Knights of Hell. I built that entire demonic order with my own hands, _Abaddon_ included." There was an onerous, emotional weight behind the confession that seemed unfounded in that moment, though it was infinitely palpable.

All eyes turned contemptuously on Meg. Castiel regarded her in a way that revealed his disappointment, and Meg just looked indignant. "Hey, you asked for backstory, I was giving it. Beekeeper here interrupted before I could get to the juicy parts."

"Well, here's something she doesn't know… it wasn't the archangels that slaughtered the Knights. It was _me_."

A quiet swept over the room as that revelation hung heavy in the air, each person falling quiet with the news. "Why did you turn on your own?" Sam asked, almost loathe to know.

"Why does anybody?" Cain replied vaguely. The opaque stronghold that was his piercing stare slid to Meg, the meaning there unclear and yet completely clear.

"My brother asked you a question."

Cain turned those sharp eyes back on Dean. "Once again, I admire your bravery. But, if you'll excuse me, I have errands to run in town." The two firstborns stood opposite each other, each unwavering, each aware they wore the same chains. That mutual burden was almost tangible in that moment it was so apparent. "Goodbye, Dean Winchester. Never return."

Before Dean could start threatening the deadliest monster they'd possibly ever faced, Castiel spoke up from behind them. "Who is this?"

He was holding up an ornate picture frame, and it held a photograph inside of a woman which was clearly antique. The inscription read _Colette_. Cain visibly reacted to the sight of her image, a deeply buried anguish resurfacing for the barest moment. Meg had drifted over to Castiel's side, looking over his shoulder at the picture.

"Same ring," she remarked of the smiling woman's left hand. "Looks like the Father of Murder got hitched. Congrats. Sorry we didn't bring a toaster oven."

The gutted expression Cain wore was barely restrained. "That belongs to me," he said calmly, his voice belying the conflict in his eyes. "Please return it to where you found it."

Castiel wordlessly obliged, exchanging a look with Meg and then the others. A flash of headlights suddenly filled the room, and every eye turned to the entryway of the house in confusion. Taking a moment to activate at the unfounded arrival of more strangers, the foursome gathered at the windows with grim suspicion.

There were three vehicles parked on the lawn, more pulling up the drive, and bodies began piling out, facing the house with an intent that was dangerously obvious.

"Don't suppose they're with you?" Dean muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Cain.

"No," the demon said, nonreactive.

"We don't want any trouble, Cain!" shouted a voice from outside the house. "We're just here for the Winchesters and that traitorous little bitch!"

Meg rolled her eyes. "These mouthbreathers need to get more creative with their pet names."

"They need to die," Castiel said darkly, the tense cut of his shoulders adding to his severe demeanor. He was cast in a dark silhouette as he stared into the light, picking out bodies, cataloguing how many they would each be responsible for and just how he planned to deal with his.

Sam began counting, the attempt to weigh the odds a seemingly pointless one. He shook his head. "I count…"

"Too fucking many," Dean growled, turning on Cain to face him head on. "Sack up, Firstborn. Are you gonna help us or not?"

Cain remained unimpressed. "You should barricade the doors," he coolly advised.

"Get ready for a fight," Meg presaged, watching twenty or so demons pile out of several vehicles and more creeping up on the property from the surrounding woods. Her eyes were void of all light, bottomless and battle-ready as she brought out her weapons.

"Good luck with that," Cain said, both sincere and yet not.

Dean was already in his face. "Excuse me?"

"You exposed my home. You exposed _me_."

"Boo-fucking-hoo!" the hunter retorted.

Cain shook his head, something like admiration making his mouth curl at the edges. "You truly have lived up to your reputation."

Dean looked as though his entire world were crashing down at his feet, the desperation in his voice and face clawing for reprieve—for what he knew he needed to leave here with. "I can't say you've lived up to yours."

"I'm retired."

Behind them, the others were already barricading the windows and doors, a vivid contrast to the momentous silence hanging between the two who stood in the center of the room. Fury and malice churned in one, fortitude and something almost like hope rising in the other. Just as Dean was about to turn away in disgust, Cain spoke low and quiet in the small shell of solitude they shared in the center of the chaos.

"You want the Blade, Dean? Prove to me you deserve it."

Before Dean could ask just what the hell that meant, the double doors separating the living room from the kitchen swung shut behind him, blockading the others.

The trio inside whirled to find themselves trapped—or rather to see Dean trapped with Cain. "What the hell!" Sam demanded. He and Castiel were already drawing weapons, and before they could break down the wooden and glass doors, Meg was laying hands on either of their arms, indicating they wait and see what would happen. "What is this?!"

"A job interview," she quipped without humor. "Cain wants to see his prize fighter in action."

Castiel's eyes flew to hers, a great weight sinking in his gut. "No," he murmured, realizing now. He looked back on the scene in the kitchen with mounting dread.

Dean ignored the protests coming from behind the doors. "What are you talking about?"

Cain spread his hands in a contemplative shrug. "Show me you haven't lost a step from the man I've heard so much about." The demon then snapped his fingers, and a backdoor swung open. This allowed several demons to pile into the house before the door slammed shut again behind them. They looked around in a manner that was almost comical, eyes falling on Cain with poorly concealed trepidation before he shook his head. "Don't mind me." He indicated Dean. "Enjoy yourselves."

There was a brief moment of pause as they all reacted to what was intended to unfold. Then, without further hesitation, Dean drew the demon knife from inside his jacket and exploded into action. He lunged at the first target, immediately slicing it across it's chest which spewed brimstone in the dying light. Recovering, the demon came at him like a bull out of the gate and they grappled across the kitchen. Dean had just gained leverage when it sent him sprawling over the table and at the feet of yet another. Dean rose up in a smooth motion, cutting off the attack with brutal ease. He twisted the demon's arm behind it's back, pivoting once and ducking another wild swing before stabbing the knife into its chest. Dean cast it carelessly aside, moving onto the next. Two demons surrounded him, one grabbing for each arm and hauling him up into the air and slamming him back down onto the table.

He took a few hits as they pinned him down, fighting their hold and lashing out with his leg. His boot connected hard, sending the possessed female careening back into the wall. Above him, Dean gave the other three savage punches, lurching back to his feet to then drive the bludgeon of his knee into the demon's face. Blood spurted over his jeans and he whirled, sensing the female as she recovered. She held his knife in her hand, still coated with blood. As she lunged, Dean seized a hand towel off the nearby counter, catching her hand with it and twisting to garrote her throat. Using the makeshift leach, he gathered momentum and hurled her across the room into the refrigerator and then into the buffet cabinet filled with chinaware. The plates shattered on impact, shards of porcelain raining loudly onto the tile as both the buffet and the demon tumbled in a heaping crash to the floor.

Whirling, Dean grabbed a hefty cooking pot off the top of the fridge and hurled it at the approaching demon's head. It connected with a dull clang, sending it staggering back. Dean delivered a powerful kick to its sternum, bone cracking under the force. He spun back to the female, trading hard blows and regaining his weapon. He gained the upper hand quickly, pinning her arm from behind, bringing the demon knife up into her ribs.

Behind the barricade of the French doors, Sam and Castiel watched anxiously as the last demon gripped Dean around the trunk and bulldozed him back into the fridge, nearly toppling it over. They fought with barbarous skill, tearing across the kitchen like two battering rams. The demon got in one or two good hits, then sent Dean skidding hard and fast across the floor until his back met with the cabinets there, knocking several doors loose.

With boiling umbrage, Dean climbed back to his feet, wearing a murderous glower. Again, they met in combat, exchanging brutal punches and harsh kicks. Everything in their path fell to ruin—cabinet doors torn off their hinges, picture frames crashing to the floor, glass shattering in a rain of sinister shards.

Behind them, Cain retrieved a beer from his off-kilter fridge.

With a powerful move, Dean heaved the demon back and pummeled it down onto the table, arcing the blade high to bring it slamming down into its throat with vicious finality.

As another black soul was extinguished in a burst of hellfire, the body lay spasming for a short time and Dean slowly looked up, meeting the eyes of his onlooker. Cain drank calmly from his beer, eyeing Dean contemplatively over the mouth of the glass in appraisal. He allowed the others back into the room with a brief flick of his fingers.

The three piled in at Dean's back, saying nothing although not knowing what they _would_ say even if they had any such inclination. This was beyond them, belonging to Dean alone.

He shoved the demon off the table and to the side, feeling a rankling sense of outrage. "What the fuck was this, some kind of test?"

Cain considered him, his demeanor more serious. All affability vanished in place of something else entirely. "I've felt connected to you right from the beginning. Kindred spirits, if you will. You and I… are very much alike."

Dean stared the demon down, shoulders squared menacingly, his breathing more calm as the adrenaline dissipated. "Right. Except I didn't _kill_ my _brother_."

Cain's eyes never strayed from Dean, a strange, solemn intrigue coating his quiet words. "You saved yours. Why?"

"Because you never give up on family," Dean practically growled. As though the very idea was foreign and despicable. " _Ever_."

Beside him, Sam's eyes went to his face. Stark, affected surprise colored his expression and at his brother's words, he quietly reeled. Was that hope he felt?

Cain tilted his head, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "Yet you no longer trust each other. I remember what that was like."

The reminder brought Sam crashing back down, but Dean shook his head. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, and I don't really care. Just give me the damn Blade."

"What you seek after so hungrily isn't here," Cain told him, a note of regret in his voice. He glanced at Castiel, to Meg, then back again at Dean. "Your spell brought you to the source of the Blade's power." He rose to his feet, coming around the side of the table, rolling up his sleeve. "Me."

There, inside his forearm, _vav_ was engraved into the skin—the sixth letter of the Hebrew alphabet and one of the letters in His name. The ultimate defiance. The branded flesh was red and abraded, even after thousands of years.

The group stared in communal horror at what they were seeing, overwhelmed to be in the presence of it. Even Meg looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

"That's the Mark of Cain," Sam murmured.

"From Lucifer himself." Cain ran a thumb over the raised flesh, frowning deeply at the feel of it. "The Mark and the Blade work together. Without the mark, the Blade is useless. It's just an old bone."

"Bone?" Dean echoed.

"A jawbone," Castiel elaborated, looking at his friend heavily before turning those eyes back on Cain. "From an animal. A jawbone he used to kill Abel." He remembered the younger brother's scream, remembered the angels looking on in abject shock at the unspeakable sight, none of them knowing what to do. Humans were supposed to be pure—free of malice, free of hatred. Yet one of them had slain his own kin before their very eyes.

"Because he was God's _favorite_ ," Dean surmised in a mordant tone. He felt a reflexive abhorrence to the creature before him at the reminder.

But Cain grew suddenly angry. Emotional, even. "Abel wasn't talking to _God_. He was talking to _Lucifer_ ," he spat, clearly reliving that very moment and all the more devastated because of it. His eyes turned again to Sam, the communication meaningful as much as it was painful. "You remember what it was like to stand in his presence. To look on that face. _Terrible_ , and remarkable. It's an affliction I won't soon forget. Lucifer… he was going to make my brother into his _pet_ ," Cain said, turning back to Dean. The parallel stunned both brothers into silence. "I couldn't bear to watch him be corrupted, so I offered a deal. Abel's soul in Heaven for my soul in Hell. Lucifer accepted. As long as I was the one who sent Abel to Heaven." A long, drawn out quiet stretched between them. Cain averted his eyes, allowing his gaze to fall downcast against that particular memory. "So I killed him. Became a soldier of Hell. A Knight."

"And Daddy ordered you to make more," Meg filled in quietly.

Cain shook his head, slow and heated as he turned away from them. "My Knights and I… we did _horrible_ things. For centuries. Bringers of chaos and darkness…"

"Then you met Colette," Castiel filled in, the guesswork easy enough considering the timeline of when Cain dropped off the face of the earth.

The Firstborn was staring longingly at the picture sitting over the fireplace. "She knew who I was," he said softly, acknowledging that Castiel was correct. "She loved me unconditionally." Cain looked at the fallen angel then, at the small demon standing next to him. "She forgave me."

The words tugged at something inside of Meg, her features drawn in quiet absorption of the story. Though she said nothing, the sharp lines of her face seemed softer somehow, the cunning shape of her lips less aloof.

"She only asked for one thing."

"To stop," Sam softly surmised.

And so he had. He'd destroyed his own monster, laid down the Blade, turned on his own—all of it for love. Why else?

Cain looked at them, fresh anguish transforming his cold stare into something vulnerable and aching. "When the Knights found out, they took retribution. They _took_ Colette, so I picked the First Blade back up. It felt _so good_ to have it in my hands again and I _slaughtered_ the Knights of Hell."

"Not all of them," Dean said, frowning.

"No," Cain conceded quietly after a long time, looking as though he were reliving a nightmare. His eyes had glazed over, the arch of his dark brow drawing together in pensive inward torment. _You're better than all of this_ , rang his wife's voice in his head, gentle like a breeze over thistle. "I buried her and I walked away."

"Well, I'm sorry," Dean said, meaning it. "Truly. But I have to stop Abaddon."

Cain said nothing. He merely turned away from the hunter and began to walk away.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch!" In seconds, Dean had him pinned against the wall, the demon knife bared in his face. "You may be done killing, but _I'm_ _not_!"

With chilling calm, Cain took Dean's arm in a firm hold and drew it forward in a swift motion so that the knife embedded deeply into his heart. There was no smoldering brimstone, no smell of sulfur, no flicker at all. Just as everyone was reacting to this with stunned surprise, Cain's eyes appeared to roll back, the haunting white void staring back at Dean with alarming calm. At the edges of his vision, tiny veins of black edged towards the center, ever-moving much like a demon's smoke. _I cannot be killed_ , the display of power seemed to say. "You never give up on anything, do you?"

For a long time, killers mortal and immortal faced off in silent opposition. " _Never_ ," came Dean's ready reply. "Now where is it?"

"I've kept it hidden. Always in reach."

" _Bring it to me_."

Cain's eyes lost their demonic edge, the frosty stare returning. "Have you heard nothing I've said?"

"You mean your fucking _riddles_?" Dean snapped, losing patience. "I can't keep up with the shit you're spewing, man."

"Great," Meg muttered from the window. She stared out into the yard that was illuminated only by headlights and the moon as it sat high in the sky, watching the bodies dodge in and out through the shafts of light. "More friends just showed up to the party, and look, they've brought their pet chompers."

"Croats," Cas observed dourly from her side.

" _Dean_ …" Sam began. The three of them were becoming anxious, wishing this would move along or that Cain would finally decide to lend a hand, because the odds were not looking good.

"The _Mark_ , Dean," Cain elaborated sternly. "I can give it to you, if it's what you truly want."

The hunter shook his head, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"

"The Mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy."

Realization hit Dean hard. "You mean a killer, like you."

He knew the answer even before it was spoken. It was who he was, after all. What he was made for. The fury he felt inside, the desperation and the loathing, that empty feeling that spread out to consume him, unrelenting and demanding—the very things Cain had recognized in him from the moment they stood within another's presence.

"Yes," Cain answered with quiet intensity.

The word lanced through Dean. Killing was the only thing that beat it back. There was a calm that settled over him when the blade sunk deep, when he saw the light flicker and go out of their eyes. Always a meager victory, all those monsters dying at his hand. But it was something.

And lately, he wanted that something more and more.

The real reward was knowing some innocent would live another day, or some victim had gotten the only justice they were going to get. But even that didn't seem to do much for him anymore. Still, there was always the satisfaction in knowing those evil sons a bitches were dead because of him. Because he'd stood his ground, stared down evil and didn't blink, didn't hesitate. Just raised his blade and cut right through them.

Loud pounding carried from outside, reverberating across the house from each door. His friends were preparing for a fight, knowing it was going to be bad. Knowing that this was exactly what they'd expected in so many ways—impossible odds, fighting for survival, harboring the very real understanding that not all of them would be going home.

Dean looked away from the chaos, back at Cain, impassioned now. "Can I use it to kill that bitch?" he asked, not caring about anything beyond that. He was poison and he would take Cain's mantle. He would do the only thing he was good at.

" _Yes_."

Sam and Cas worked together to tip over the large bureau in front of the main entrance. On the other side of the house, Meg was doing the same before they backtracked and crossed paths again, weapons out. Her and Cas would be first into the melee, since neither of them could be infected. "Nice knowing you, feathers," the little demon said, throwing him a wild, bitter smile that was so full of longing it startled him. "See you on the other side."

Castiel was uncertain what he could say that encompassed their relationship and what she meant to him. When nothing came, Castiel merely nodded. "See you on the other side," he echoed.

Dean stared at the demon across from him with dawning understanding. "This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

"Nature is made up of balances, Dean. Nothing will ever be so powerful as to live forever. Abaddon is a predator." Cain's eyes narrowed balefully, his voice pitched low and sinister. "But even predators can be preyed upon."

Ignoring the maddening din surrounding them, Dean shook his head. "Why didn't you kill her when you had the chance?"

"Because fate is tricky and it has a funny way of things. I think it was always going to be you." The Firstborn looked averse then, his following words revealing hesitation. "You have to know… with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great _cost_."

Dean was already yanking up his sleeve. "Spare me the warning label, you had me at _kill the bitch_."

Cain looked him dead in the eyes, marveling at this singular soul, musing that it was not unlike looking into a mirror. "Good luck, Dean. I mean that. Because you'll need it."

Fleetingly, Dean met Sam's eyes across the room. He thought of how he'd watched his brother to say yes to Lucifer. How he'd said no to Michael. Both choices being inherently right for the cause it was serving at the time. Certainty had been the marrow of his bones then as it was now, and so Dean didn't even think about saying yes to Cain.

"Do it."

Just held out his hand as the fratricide gripped it tightly with his own in a gesture of deep respect, words inadequate somehow. One by one, every muscle in Dean's body tensed with anticipation. Then, Cain transferred the chilling hold up the hunter's arm, and Dean felt power surge through him in a rushing torrent of burning agony.

Dean held on through the pain, allowing the searing brand to mark him for the killer he was. A dealer in death, more lethal than venom to those who trusted him. Everything erupted into a fiery red light behind his eyes, a deafening buzz pulsing in his ears that distorted all sounds. Snaking scarlet vines crawled up his skin, energy surging into him. Upon his forearm, the flesh raised in the familiar notorious shape, left raw and scalded in the aftermath.

Cain released him with a violent shudder and Dean sucked in a deep, gasping breath. His brother was already at his side, gripping his shoulders and to keep him from stumbling back. "Dean!"

Castiel had his angel blade in one hand, a machete in the other. He stared at the Mark with a sickened feeling, dread laying heavy on his shoulders. Beside him, Meg looked anxious and impatient to address their ambushers with violence.

Dean shook off the residual effects, his vision slowly returning to normal. "I'm fine. Now where the hell did you stash the damn Blade?"

Cain called the weapon forth, and he suddenly had the Blade gripped tightly in his hand.

Dean saw it and needed it. The Mark burned hot in reply, a painful longing to have the Blade in his hand surging to the surface. Dean stared at it in rapture, the pain escalating to the point where nothing else could be perceived.

Sam looked at the primitive old bone, a terrible sense of awestruck fear coursing through him. The Father of Murder held it as though presenting it on a pedestal to his brother, a treasured prize. Castiel may have no longer been an angel, but he could feel the Blade's evil resonating from across the room. This was the weapon responsible for the first murder. The first time brother killed brother.

This was Dean taking action. Seizing back control. Moving forward, into the fray.

He reached out and took up the Blade for his own.

Immediately, it was like two magnets bonding together. Two halves of a whole converging as one. Around them, the room gave a shuddering quake. The power of the Mark and its Blade pulsed through his veins, fueling his dormant anger to a crushing, unstoppable force. Dean's eyes fixed on the weapon in his hand, a look of intense awareness spreading across his face. His entire arm shook and he reflexively tightened his grip on the Blade as though it were a lifeline. He felt his entire being become one with the weapon, finally achieving its full potential— _his_ full potential. The feeling was exhilarating and Dean's skin was abuzz with the primal energy flowing through him. Every fiber he possessed exuded the raw, unadulterated power of a man born and bred and unafraid to kill.

Cain drew in close to him, his icy stare intense. "When you're alone with your demons, Dean Winchester, hope can't survive. The only thing that can live in the dark with you is your anger. Use it. Because that anger can be transmuted into a power which can move the whole world." Dean reeled at the words, at what had transpired in a few short hours. A brutal battle, three demons slain, and Cain confirmed he was worthy. "You will go and you will kill Abaddon. But make me a promise first. When I call you, and I _will_ call, you come find me. And use the Blade on me."

Dean's brow drew together at that, and he faintly shook his head. "Why?"

"For what I'm about to do. Take your brother's hand."

Dean automatically obeyed, feeling Sam grip him back tight. Cain reached out, laying a hand over Dean's shoulder, and then Castiel's. With a jarring rush, the three men were suddenly outside, standing at the outskirts of the property, out of the sight of the demons and Croats. As the brothers were regaining their footing, Castiel became panicked.

"Where is Meg?" he said aloud, looking wildly around them. Dean and Sam glanced in confusion, confirming that Meg was indeed no longer with them. Then Sam was lurching forward in alarm, grabbing at Castiel as the fallen angel began to tear back towards the house.

"No! Cas, no! Stop! Dean, help me!"

Both brothers took hold of each arm, hauling Castiel back as he fought against them.

"She's still inside!"

* * *

Meg felt an almost icy chill wash over her upon realizing she was now alone with the only demon she actually feared. Cain regarded her gravely, his penetrating stare intense in new ways. "Abaddon is after you. She wants you for her crusade."

"I kind of figured," she answered unevenly. She could practically feel her angel fighting to get to her, wherever he was. Meg tried not to show how much she was actually afraid, but Cain surprised her then.

"Stay with Castiel, no matter the cost. He can save you, Amara."

The words were said in quiet urgency, a fissure of sincerity running through them. Before she could formulate a response, Meg felt a staggering pull all around her and then she was standing beside Castiel and the Winchesters. They all started at her sudden appearance and then, snapping out of his daze, Castiel roughly shook off the hands keeping him anchored and gripped at Meg's shoulders, looking her over for injuries.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice angry and still tinged with panic. "Why did he keep you?"

"Told me to be good, eat my vitamins," Meg replied a little breathlessly, brushing him off to indicate that she was fine. "Don't steal from babies."

Castiel opened his mouth to protest her lack of an actual answer, but was interrupted by the sudden sound of screams that erupted from the house.

From the windows, a bright, scarlet flash burst through the panes. And then another, and another. More and more flashes appeared, and it reminded Dean of the power that surged outward when an angel smote a demon. The screams from the house intensified, the four observers realizing the same thing at once.

"They're all trapped in there," Sam murmured.

Meg shifted her weight, feeling another shudder crawl up her spine. Unconsciously, she listed closer to Castiel, who simply stared ahead with grim regard, having seen the display many times before. "With him."

Dean felt his rage crest and clarity wash over him. Beneath his sleeve, the Mark burned hot.

"Good," he said.

* * *

_been trading love with indifference and it suits me just fine_   
_I try to hold on but I'm calloused to the bone_   
_maybe that's why I feel alone_   
_I'm rusted and weathered, barely holding together_   
_covered with skin that peels and it just won't heal_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"We'll assign a six man team to escort the survivors back to the camp. Myself and the remainder will continue out past mile marker sixty-three to convene with Camp Clearwater's team for supply exchange. Be sure to transfer additional canned goods to my vehicle—we'll get the medical supplies loaded into yours," Castiel was saying to Charlie.

She nodded, eyeing the crates with a mixture of relief and gratitude before setting that bright stare back on him. "You're a key, Cas."

"I'm not quite sure what—" She surprised him by throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Thank you." Charlie gave him an extra squeeze and drew back, reaching up to pinch his cheek for good measure before hurrying along after the crates.

Castiel stared after her bemusedly, thinking that what he did was nothing spectacular, but pleased to see that the girl was smiling. She hadn't done that in a long time.

"And where would you have me, keymaster?" said a deep voice beside him and Castiel looked to see Ezekiel regarding him and the redheaded girl with amusement.

Castiel considered his elder brother in puzzlement at the inquiry. "You don't have to defer to me, Ezekiel. You're the stronger of the two of us."

Ezekiel chuckled, shaking his head as they fell in step together. "Stronger, perhaps. But you are still _Castiel_. I'll follow you, grace or not."

Castiel remembered a time spent fighting alongside his sibling in the Rebellion, and again in the newest war to tear Heaven apart—the war against Raphael. Ezekiel had proven himself time and again to be trustworthy, powerful, dedicated, and above all compassionate. When others had abandoned him, Ezekiel stayed true. Castiel recalled many battles fought with this brother, who had been one of his best lieutenants. Striking down demons and enemy angels, coming together as a single force against the bulwark of what fought to destroy them. Castiel's vessel was tall and well-built, but Ezekiel's was mightier still, and so he smothered their enemies under the sheer brute force he commanded where his younger brother moved with speed and agility, each gambit more cunning than the last. The twin arcs of holy steel catching the light in chaotic ways, sparks flying and blades ringing as they met again and again under Heaven's skies. A trenchcoat snapping against the wind like the beating of wings.

Ezekiel knew from the moment of Castiel's creation that he would follow this brother anywhere. _It is not only humans that are destined for great things, Castiel_ , he'd told him once, as they both knelt in respite at the edge of Heaven. Even then, Castiel had needed convincing.

"No matter my intentions," he was saying now with a rueful frown, "no matter the path I take, I seem to ultimately fail. I'm not a leader, and I'm not sure I ever deserved to be."

Ezekiel chuckled deeply, shaking his head. "Ah, Castiel. So much to learn. _So_ much to learn." His dark stare peered on past the horizon, looking into things unknown. Eventually, he turned back to his brooding sibling and offered some advice. "It is the fear of becoming ordinary that inspires so many to be extraordinary. You fought against the mold. You _rejected_ the broken ways our superiors tried to force down on us. You refused to be faceless, and in doing so you granted that freedom to all of us. Don't forget that while you may have rebelled against Heaven, you still were rewarded. You've always been willing to follow our Father while fighting for His children." Ezekiel indicated the small group of their human crewmembers ahead. "You see what He sees in them. It's different. That doesn't make it a bad thing."

Castiel sighed deeply, smiling despite himself. "You know," he said. "I missed your counsel."

Ezekiel's dark features brightened into a broad grin. Laughing, he gripped a hand over his sibling's shoulder, jostling him merrily. "Be noble, little brother, for you are made of stars."

At his hip, Castiel's walkie crackled for attention and he brought it up to his face, already knowing who it was. "We're about eight miles out. Charlie has the medical supplies."

" _Nothing on my end but squatters and Croats_ ," came Meg's voice, sounding surly. " _Heading back to base_."

"Are you alright?"

" _I broke a nail. So I'm a little pissed about that_."

"I'm… sorry," Castiel managed, not quite sure how else to respond to that.

" _What about you, hotwings? How's that ass of yours_?"

Castiel's brow wrinkled. "My ass is fine."

" _And you'll be back when_?"

"I have the exchange with Clearwater. If all goes as planned, I should return by sundown."

" _Good. Tonight when I get my hands on you, Castiel, you're gonna think you're back in Heaven. First, I'm going to take these handcuffs_ —"

He fumbled with the walkie, switching it off in a hurry as heat flushed up his neck and turned his cheeks a deep red. Ezekiel's baritone laughter revealed that the damage was already done, and Castiel felt a swell of embarrassment. He cleared his throat with some difficultly, wishing he could retreat into a hole somewhere, or that a meteor might drop on his head from outer space.

"She is volatile," his brother remarked, the smile he wore approving. "I like her."

* * *

_and I took you by the hand, and we stood tall_   
_remembered our own land, and what we lived for_   
_and now I cling to what I knew_   
_I saw exactly what was true_   
_but oh no more, that's why I hold_   
_that's why I hold with all I have, that's why I hold_

* * *

PRESENT, KANSAS

It was late in the evening when the jeep rumbled up the long path leading to Camp Chitaqua.

Before the gates were in view, Sam pulled off to the side of the road, putting the vehicle into park. Three questioning stares fell on him and he swiveled in his seat to look at Castiel and Meg. "Go on ahead. We'll catch up."

Dean looked at him from the passenger seat, snapping out of whatever remote isolation had befallen him for the past several hours.

Meg sighed theatrically. "Goody. We get to walk while Laverne and Shirley have some melodramatic bonding."

"Meg," Castiel muttered sidelong in reproach. He offered Sam a comradely nod through the rearview mirror, tugging the ornery demon out after him.

When the two of them were almost out of sight, Sam trained his eyes on his brother.

Dean had many looks. The intense, _middle-of-reasoning-through-a-case_ look. The sudden, inspired _I-know-what-did-it_ look. The wary, alert _something's-not-right_ look. Then there were a few Dean reserved just for him. The _far-too-excited-about-pushing-his-buttons_ look, which was usually coupled with an infuriatingly smug grin right as Sam was about to deck him. The blank _I-don't-understand-a-word-you-just-said_ look. And, of course, the _oh-so-help-me-Sammy_ glare—common to their arguments just as he cornered Dean with impeccable logic or pigheadedness.

All those looks Sam knew. But this one? He'd rarely seen it. Not nearly enough to identify clearly. Though, he'd seen shades of it… when Dean came back from the dead with a secret. When Dean crawled out of his own grave and refused to speak about Hell. When he'd torn a hole through reality itself and fought his way back out of Purgatory.

The silence was deafening and Sam recalled that Dean no longer listened to music. It had once been a favorite past time, but because of the bittersweet memories it raised, Dean avoided it now at all costs. He was frighteningly still beside him, calloused fingers tracing over the raised, raw flesh of his forearm, transfixed by it.

"Hey."

His brother looked up and Sam felt like he was already losing this battle. Getting Dean to talk nowadays was like pulling teeth. Knowing that Cain found Dean a worthy successor was off-putting, but seeing Dean take so readily to the challenge is what really put Sam on edge.

At Sam's voice, Dean rolled his sleeve down to cover the scar. "I'm here, Sam. Unwad the panties."

Sam sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "I don't even know what the hell to say, man."

"We knew this had to happen. I need the Blade to kill Abaddon. I need the Mark to use the Blade."

Sam shook his head. He could see the steadfast resolve that was always there, but past that he could also see the anger and the fear brimming just underneath the surface. "No, Dean. This isn't about the Mark or the Blade or anything Cain said. This is about you."

Dean bristled. "What about me?"

Sam turned to him, his expression one of utmost sincerity. "You put your own safety in peril because you think you don't matter."

_Not like Sammy_ , Dean thought automatically. _Not like everyone else matters_.

"What the hell do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything, Dean. Just listen." Sam's eyes were forceful but earnest and Dean felt a camaraderie pass between them that he hadn't felt in a long time. "I know you're gonna do whatever you think you need to do to see this thing through. But I will _never_ be done trying to save you. You're my brother. Whether I'm so pissed at you I can't think straight and can't stand to even look at you, or when we're out there in the field watching each other's backs. I'm still here, right there with you. I'm not happy about this—not for a fucking second. But I'm with you."

Dean took this information in with quiet reverence, the words sinking in more deeply than Sam thought they would. He looked at his brother and finally saw the struggle there. Dean wasn't the only one hanging on by a thread. There were dark shadows under Sam's eyes—or where his eyes would have been if he'd still had them both. Dean's gaze slid to the patch of cloth over his brother's face, realizing that it was not a quick fix. Not something that Dean could simply clap him on the back for with a simple, _shake it off, Sammy!_ His brother had lost part of his sight and he was never getting it back. Sam had to live with that. He had to live with feeling incomplete, like he was only half the hunter he had been.

And if anyone could empathize with feeling worthless, it was Dean Winchester. For him, it was dealing with—or more accurately, _not_ dealing with—depression, apathy, and a craving for violence. After he had emerged from Hell, he'd been faced with a deep self-loathing bred from the knowledge that he had become a tormentor in that vile place, and that role had felt right for him. He had managed to repress that side of him, but upon receiving that brand into his skin… he'd started to feel those old feelings of violence more keenly. He hadn't verbalized it yet and had no intention of ever doing so, but it set him back a step. Seeing the same stirrings of self-hatred in his brother's eyes had those protective inklings rushing back to the surface with tidal force.

"You know, I've been a real prick lately." Sam chuckled derisively and Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I'm serious. It's your turn to listen, alright? Look at me." When he was sure he had his brother's full attention, he spoke the words they each had been dreading to address, ever since Pennsylvania. "Lucifer is not going to see the light of day. Ever again. Do you understand me? He isn't going to win this time either, and I ain't gonna let him touch one freakishly long hair on that Cro-Magnon head, got it?"

Sam laughed at his brother's idiocy, but the meaning behind it inspired something powerful inside him. Relief, gratitude, liberation—and something that hadn't been there in a long time. _Trust_.

He used to think that if anyone else had been made to endure everything his brother had been through, they would have emotionally shut off a long time ago. Wouldn't care about themselves at all, and especially not about anyone else. Dean was shut off in so many ways, but when poor treatment caused someone to believe that they were worth less because of it, he felt it too. For awhile, Sam thought his brother had lost that empathy completely. But perhaps there was hope left for him, after all.

Unbidden, he held up their father's journal between them, unspoken words exchanged through the gesture. Not the journal they had known all their lives, but the relic they had only recently found. The journal that contained John Winchester's thoughts and findings on the First Blade and the Mark that controlled it. "You're gonna need this."

_Maybe Sam is right_ , Dean thought. Maybe he could be saved. He ran his fingers over the leather binding of the journal, a hundred new secrets waiting there to be uncovered. _All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing_ , said someone once. Well… no matter the strength of his character, Dean wasn't built to do nothing.

Beneath his sleeve, the Mark burned idly, waiting to be put to use. Reminding him of its purpose. Inside his jacket, the Blade called out for blood. The travails ahead would devastate them, Dean was sure. Because as much as he wanted to believe Sam, as much as he wanted to hope, there was no easy fix to anything.

_A cost_ , Cain had said.

Whatever it was, it didn't matter. What mattered was that the impossible would be done. The last Knight of Hell gone. The world a little safer.

Dean would do that.

He had the Mark. He had the Blade. The power and the purpose.

Abaddon's days were numbered.

* * *

_you were running out of time_   
_but oh your city lies in dust, my friend_   
_choking on the dirt and sand_   
_your molten bodies blanket of cinders_   
_caught in the throes_

* * *

"Well, we're alive," Meg remarked as their boots crunched in the dirt.

"I'm surprised," Castiel admitted, a sense of cautious relief filling him.

Meg, however, scoffed. "You know that Mark could easily be the death of us as much as Abaddon."

His mouth pressed into a grim line, sharing that sentiment all too keenly. "Yes, I know."

"So then what's the plan, Stan?"

Castiel's brow wrinkled and he looked at her closely as they walked. His expression said he _knew_ there was something he wasn't getting, but his lips spoke anyways, despite it. "…My name is not Stan." Predictably, Meg shook her head and sighed. She stopped and stared at him critically. "I assume that's an idiom of some sort that's just going over my head?"

"Wordplay. Rhyming names with a portion of a sentence."

He regarded her archly, a little smug even. "You should rhyme with my actual name instead of a made up one."

Meg raised a single dark eyebrow at the challenge. "You're a pain in my ass, Cas."

He actually smirked at that, the expression making him look roguish and appealing in all new ways. Meg stared at him, something changing in her expression like a dusky shroud being cast over her eyes. Her breathing hitched, chest heaving strangely, and before he could ask what was wrong, she was advancing towards him. " _God, you're impossible_ ," she ground out, fingers gripping tightly into his collar and jerking him down into a kiss.

Castiel's back struck a nearby tree, and he emitted a careless sound, reacting instantly. One hand tangled in her hair and the other pulled her flush against him, reveling in the feel of her movement and touch. Needing it, craving it. He'd expected to die. Had gone into this mission thinking it would be his last— _everyone's_ last. Yet through some baffling twist of fate, they were all still here. She was still here.

The moment when he'd been sure Meg was trapped in that house with Cain, he'd lost it. Every bone, every muscle of his body had instantly propelled him back towards the fire, needing to either drag her out of it or go up in flames beside her. Their kiss deepened, her aching moan against his mouth nearly his undoing. Having her alive and inciting in his arms—wholly and incontestably _Meg_ —drove him mad with relief and longing. He made a desperate sound, extricating himself through sheer force of will, despite her noisy protest. "What did he say to you?"

Meg deflated at the breathless inquiry, though she was still practically glued to him despite her disapproval of it. "Are you competing for best mood killer?"

His hand slid under her jaw, eyes searching her face. "If you're in danger, I want to know."

She rolled her eyes at that, wishing he would go back to coaxing those little noises out of her. "I'm not in danger."

"You're always in danger," he argued, getting restless. "We both are."

Relenting, Meg exhaled noisily. "He said Abaddon was after me. Nothing we didn't already know."

"Is that all?"

"What do you mean, _is that all_?" Meg looked indignant, her voice coming out snide and sharp.

"I didn't mean that like it sounded," he said, nose brushing against hers as his gaze momentarily retreated. Meg seemed satisfied by that, her anger dissipating some.

The gentle way he was touching her now had her wondering what happened to the rough, needy manhandling he'd displayed moments ago. Now he was looking at her so closely and so intently that it was almost like he was looking right into her true face.

"You mean Lucifer." At his meager look of guilt, she sighed. "No, Castiel. Cain didn't tell me anything about him."

It was no secret to himself that Castiel felt those treacherous stirrings of doubt. Because there had been a time when Lucifer was Meg's most ardent cause. He trusted her implicitly, but since Pennsylvania, the dark notions would not leave him be. He felt disloyal and wretched because of it, the shame eating away at him. The cautionary voice in his head had not let up over the past several days, and Castiel hated himself for it. That voice reminded him of a ring of fire, of the look in her eyes as she taunted him from the edge of it. The devotion she'd displayed towards her creed, towards her master. Her creator.

"I'm not jumping ships, Grumpy. You can put away the wet blanket." He looked so completely bewildered by that and she couldn't help but laugh.

Instead of a reply, he simply lowered his mouth back over hers, needing her to understand how difficult it was lately for him to trust anyone. That he was sorry, even if he couldn't seem to get the words out. It was, in part, a reassurance to himself as well. A reminder that loyalties could change for the better, that they _had_ changed. That she was as much his as he was hers.

"You never answered my question," Meg muttered against his lips in a honeyed voice, her hands sliding up his chest. His scruff prickled deliciously at her skin, rasping like sandpaper, and she needed more of it. Fingers curled into his shirt and tugged.

It took Castiel a moment to respond, since she was so keen to distract him. "You asked me a question?"

"Plans?" she repeated, her teeth grazing his bottom lip.

Castiel shook his head. "No. I'm yours."

"Really? Could have sworn Tabitha wanted you to translate those Enochian poems for her if you didn't end up as some Croat's chewtoy."

"She asked me, yes."

"I bet she did," Meg retorted sourly, eyes glinting. She knew what _Tabitha_ was interested in as far as Castiel was concerned and it sure as hell wasn't translating poems.

He uttered a faint growl, his lips reassuring at hers, hands cinched tightly over her hips. "Retract your claws. I told her I had no desire to 'make the earth move' with her. I'm _yours_."

Meg dug her nails in a little deeper just to spite him, hands sliding under his jacket to lock around his waist. "Snooty bitch doesn't understand the concept of private property." His disparaging tone made her irritable. She knew she was possessive as a petulant toddler with their favorite toy, but damn it, she was fucking tired of things trying to steal him away from her. _Mine_ , she added silently, for good measure.

Castiel's lips curled against hers before he drew back, mirth shining in his eyes at her streak of jealousy. The look he gave her was pure affection tinged with mild amusement. "You're more than enough for me."

Meg wanted to roll her eyes at him looking so pleased, like he were actually puffing his feathers. Her brow quirked at him dryly. "Was that a compliment or a complaint?"

He merely chuckled, and the sight of him dirty and battle-worn like that did things to her. Somehow, he always managed to come out alive and the knowledge was as comforting as it was bizarre. Briefly, Meg wondered that when his time was eventually up if Castiel wouldn't just stare defiantly in the face of death and refuse to die.

"Sam and Dean will be along soon," he said. "We should go."

Despite his light spirits, his head had begun its merciless pounding, announcing to him that it was time for another dose of relief. It was worse than usual—almost incessant, the ringing in his head, and he couldn't figure why.

"I hope you know I'm going to jump you the second we're home."

_Home._

The thought was pleasant, and a stark relief against the hell they'd just been put through. It tempered the raging fire in his skull, dulling it to a distant ache.

But Castiel had stopped in his tracks and Meg crashed gracelessly into him. There was a barbed comment on the tip of her tongue, but it faded from thought when she caught sight of what had caused him to skid to a halt.

Her gaze was drawn upwards. Confused suspicion colored her voice. "Is it _snowing_?"

All around them, tiny gray flakes drifted down as they stood before the gate of the camp. It wasn't cold at all—despite that it was evening, there were still remnants of that familiar, oppressive heat that followed them day to day. There was an almost sinister quiet that hung in the air that only intensified when no one immediately opened the gate to allow them entry. Castiel regarded the falling flakes with a sort of disquieted apprehension, a hollow pit beginning to form in his gut.

"It's not snow. It's ash."

Meg's gaze slid to him, a little startled.

"Something's wrong," he said, feeling the first stirrings of real panic begin to seep their way into him. "Help me open the gate."

Without questioning him, Meg lent her strength into the undertaking and they worked together to slide the two sides apart. The reinforced metal was as heavy as it was thick. She did her best to avoid the bands of iron that ran across it in stacked lines, and soon they'd pried it open just enough so that she could slip her arm through towards the chain lock on the other side.

Fingers straining, she bit out one curse after another as it remained just out of reach. Castiel grimaced against the slight ringing that had started up again in his head, growing louder as if in distress. The signal was weak and he couldn't discern it, couldn't focus, and it had him on edge to the point where it felt like his worry was a living thing growing inside him.

Meg, though, had stopped entirely. Her eyes were ebony pits, and she stood frozen in silence as she listened to something he couldn't hear. He was just about to voice the questions running through his head when she spoke. "Cas, open that fucking gate."

Hearing the banked urgency there and feeling it catapult inside himself, Castiel pressed a hand across her shoulders, drawing her back without hesitation. He pulled his sidearm from its holster and fired two shots into the slot, breaking the chain. As one they each gripped a side, adrenaline lending added strength to the imperative sense of dread that fueled them.

The sight that greeted them on the other side was horrific beyond words.

" _No_ …"

Feeling his heart pound desperately against his ribs, Castiel's mind reeled in shock, a sensation like he'd been doused in ice water spreading like panic throughout his body. He stood, staggered by the devastation that lay before them. The two lovers regarded the smoldering fires and strewn bodies in abject shock, and Castiel's throat clogged with fear and pain. He tried to draw breath, but his lungs seemed to constrict as if his body was frozen in denial.

A majority of the cabins were destroyed, either shredded into like kindling or still emitting weak flame that licked forlornly at the sky. He doubted any of them were salvageable, but that was the least of his concern. With each step he took, dread lay heavier and heavier upon him, and with a sickened feeling churning inside him, Castiel had to ease around the bodies. His eyebrows screwed up together, his mouth parted open in mute horror as he scanned their faces for any signs of life. He saw none.

A sudden sound to his left snagged his attention and Castiel's gaze darted to see a small huddle of people working to splint a broken leg. Something like agonized relief tore through him, despite that he knew how short-lived it would be.

"Help who you can," he told his companion faintly. Castiel barely even recognized his own voice.

Meg was gone from his side an instant later, for once obedient.

* * *

_In the darkness before the dawn_   
_in the swelling of this storm_   
_running around and with apologies_   
_and hope is gone_   
_leave a light, a light on_

* * *

"Oh my God," Sam despaired, his lungs emptying of air as emotion and smoke choked him. He felt a sharp stab of pain burrow deeply into his chest, a desperate need to reach out and help assaulting him as he took in the sight of their fallen camp members. The wind gusted softly around them through the mangled trees and broken cabins, and the burning question as to what the _hell_ had happened repeated over and over again in his mind.

Dean had already snagged a passing survivor and was barking orders. "I want you to find whatever able bodied crewmember is left and get them searching for survivors. We're gonna set up the injured in whatever's left of the mess hall. Whoever doesn't know how to hold a gun, get them on med duty ASAP. Take a three man team and put out these fucking fires. Sam and I will take whoever's left for reconnaissance and perimeter sweeps until we figure out what the fuck did this. You got it?"

Donovan didn't disappoint. "Yes, sir," he replied, nodding quickly as they moved. His arm was clearly broken and there was blood on his face, but he'd cinched it to his chest haphazardly and readied himself for action.

"Can you hold a gun like that?"

"If you need me to, sir," Donovan answered readily.

Dean gave him a curt nod. "Get going."

Sam turned to him, their pace increasing as they tore across the camp. "How the fuck could this have happened, Dean?"

But Dean had skidded to a halt, eyes locked on a sight past his shoulder. All militant resolve deserted him in an instant, his expression gutted.

"Dean?" Sam took a step forward, panicked at the look he saw there.

"Move. _Move!_ " shouted Dean, already shoving past his brother. His legs swallowed ground quickly towards the body he recognized, boots pounding against the earth as fast as his heart slammed against his ribs. "Risa!" Dean was at her side, knees colliding with the ground hard and weapon falling away as he frantically pressed his hands to the bloody wounds even though it was far too late. "Shit, _shit!_ Oh, fuck." Dean hauled her limp form tightly into his arms, shaking her frantically. "No, no, _no_. Rees, sweetheart, come on…"

Her own weapon was still gripped in her lifeless hands, and there were several other dead civilians scattered around her—but, damn it, Dean didn't give a shit about them. His breath rasped raggedly from between his lips, murderous anguish rising in him like bile at her lack of reply. His stomach churned, body wracked with uncontrollable shudders that suddenly heaved through him. Dean bowed over her, shouting obscenities and pleas into her dark hair until the only thing left in him was pain. His lungs suffocated instead of benefitted as his body mourned without him. Frantic desperation and gutting sorrow clawed at his skin beneath his ribs, thundering inside his chest. The Mark burned hot on his arm, angry tears burning hot in his eyes, desperate to expel that misery, desperate for a target to unleash it on.

Sam barreled up onto the scene moments later, feeling like he'd just taken a punch to the gut. He dropped down next to his brother, calling his name, but Dean no longer made any sound and had gone utterly still. Risa was wrapped up in his arms, her olive skin now ashen even in the waning light. He knelt with her, frozen in place, reality not yet finding him.

" _Dean_ …" Sam tried again. He gripped at his brother's shoulders tightly, conveying mutual grief and misery in that single moment. Dean's only reaction was to stare silently down at the body in his arms. "Dean, we've got people who need you right now. Come on, man. _I'm sorry_ , I'm so sorry, but you've gotta pull it together. We need…" he trailed off in barely contained shock, pulse quickening as his gaze fell upon something that shook him to the core. "Oh God…"

Through the desolating fog, Dean felt his brother's hold on him disappear and then Sam was gone.

He forced his features into a stoic, unfeeling mask that revealed something slowly breaking inside. His jaw clenched tightly, set in determined wrath, and he tried not to feel the burning in his vision or beneath his sleeve, or the way his throat closed over every breath he tried to take. Guilt and hatred consumed him, became him.

Steeling himself, Dean surrendered to that darkness. He no longer heard the screams around him, didn't see the racing bodies that wreathed his back in a raging eddy of turmoil. His hands merely curled into fists at his sides, face twisting into a thundercloud of ruin.

The image of retribution was all he could see.

* * *

_millions are lost from home_   
_in the swelling, swelling on_   
_running round and with a thunder_   
_to bleed from thorns_   
_leave a light, a light on_

* * *

As Castiel moved and the bodies increased in number, he started to notice that many of them bore the searing imprint of wings at their backs. The smell of burnt ozone was overwhelming, choking. All around him charred feathers drifted across his path, and Castiel began to recognize faces of his kin, a wrecked sound spilling past his lips at the realization. He saw others too that he didn't recognize, a confused dismay eating at him as he began to frantically search.

_Abaddon_ , he thought automatically, helplessly—the name an unspoken question hanging over his head, despite that he knew the postulation to be wrong.

A tiny scream pierced the air, seizing his attention. Heart in his throat, Castiel followed the cries, his legs swallowing ground quickly. He was near the mess hall now, sick to his stomach because this was where the children often gathered. _Please, please, no_ …

Relief consumed him to see no small bodies mixed in with their dead, but it was short-lived because what he saw next left him stunned and terrified. There, just outside the doors, was his sister Hael lying motionless on the ground. Castiel's expression twisted in shocked grief, devastation lancing through him. The cries belonged to Aubrey, and the child was draped over the unmoving angel as she wept inconsolably without reprieve.

Overtaken with horror, Castiel rushed over to them, his heart in his throat as he called out to her. "Aubrey?"

" _Esezomi_ ," she sobbed, fingers gripping tightly into Hael's clothing for dear life. Her eyes were fused shut, tears streaming down her tiny cheeks. " _Esezomi_!"

" _Aubrey_ , are you hurt?" Castiel dropped down beside them both, fumbling with who to tend to first and receiving no reply. Aubrey had blood all down the front of her sundress, though he sent up a reflexive prayer of thankfulness that it didn't appear to be her own. Hael had an awful wound torn into her side that was frighteningly severe and her blood coated most of the ground beneath her as well as her clothing. He took gentle hold of his sister, eyes raking over her frantically as he forced down the painful lump that tried to claw its way up his throat at the gutwrenching sight.

"Hael!" Castiel called her name with increasing panic and nauseating dread, Aubrey's devastated cries unrelenting beside him. His gaze fell to the wound, a spark of hope igniting at the sight of the weak tendrils of light that still transuded from the lesion rent into her. Her skin was pale and drawn and she was breathing in and out slowly, shallowly. "Please, sister," he murmured, pressing a hand over the wound to stem the flow of blood and dwindling grace. Light slipped through his fingers and at the pressure, Hael uttered a small, keening sound. Her lids cracked open, glassy eyes staring back at him in obvious suffering.

Hael looked scared. " _Esiasch_ ," she whimpered. She inhaled sharply, body heaving. "Aubrey, _please_ , Aubrey is…"

Castiel thought he felt something shatter inside him as he cradled her slight body against himself, rushing to set her at ease. "Aubrey is here, she's safe. Don't be afraid. Hael!" Castiel looked down at her in silent agony. His sister was already losing consciousness again, trembling and drawing in pained, reedy breaths. His chest tightened miserably. "Hael…" he beseeched, holding her head up and gripping her hand tightly with his own. _Lie to her_ , he thought. "It's going to be alright. Hold on, sister, please. Please, hold on." He whispered empty reassurances to her, stricken to the point of near-tears, so engulfed in grief that he could barely function. His heart raced, his veins burning with a feeling of despairing hope because she could live. She might live. _Please live_.

Perhaps he was even lying to himself.

"She alright?" a voice sounded suddenly from beside him, and Castiel's head jerked around to see Dean crouching next to him.

Castiel's voice was wavering. "Still alive. Barely."

The hunter's face was haggard and withdrawn, his red-rimmed eyes utterly devoid of anything warm. As he spoke the words were terse, everything about his demeanor completely detached. Something had happened. Something that made his friend almost unrecognizable to him now.

As Aubrey continued to wail softly, Dean took over. "Cas, get her out of here. I've got this."

Castiel activated, gingerly handing over his sister and then reaching out to draw Aubrey into his arms and away from Hael's body. She fought him briefly, refusing at first to be torn away from her dearest friend. Castiel gently hushed her, speaking in rushed Enochian tones in an effort to calm her.

" _Etharsi, azian_ ," he murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. He repeated the phrase, raising his voice above hers to be heard.

"Hael, _Hael_ ," she cried. "My Hael..."

"Shh, Aubrey, I know. _Ol om_." His heart went out to her, wishing he had the power to erase her pain and grief as he would have been able to before. Castiel spoke more soothing words and reassurances into her hair, holding her close as she clung to him now. Her cries had grown softer, terrified and mournful, and he couldn't fathom what new horrors she'd witnessed today. Castiel closed his eyes, lamenting deeply over the loss with her. Aubrey keened, curling into a ball against him. " _Eophan. Ese gahalana, od ese salb hom. Ol isro, ol isro_. We'll look after her, I promise you."

"CAS!"

He recognized Sam's voice, the fraught panic and desperation of it startling him. It pleaded for him, and Castiel looked up, torn once more in two directions because he was loathe to abandon Aubrey in such a state. Meg appeared beside him then, seemingly in answer to his need, and there was somberness in her eyes and blood on her jacket from tending to other wounded. "I've got her, Cas."

Her expression alone told him she knew what awaited him and Castiel felt another sick wave of dread wash over him as he rose to answer his friend's call. He had to pass through the swarm of crying children, glancing back once over his shoulder to Meg as she lifted Aubrey into her arms, at Dean as he collected Hael's light frame and began to carry her towards the mess hall.

When Castiel found Sam, the sight that greeted him may as well have been an angel blade sliding into his heart. What he saw paralyzed him, all fortitude finally abandoning him in a rushing torrent that left him clean of all strength.

Ezekiel was not yet dead, but he would be soon.

In an ironic twist of fate, his brother was slouched against a cabin wall, much like when he had first found him dying beyond the borderlands. Ezekiel had clearly been in a brutal fight, his vessel damaged in ways that any angel would struggle with to heal. But it was the handle of the angelic blade protruding from his ribs that made Castiel realize he would not be saving his brother this time.

Numbly, he approached the two of them, seeing the way Sam was losing it and rushing to do what he could despite having no clue what that was. The younger Winchester called to the angel, his tone frayed and beseeching, and Ezekiel assuaged him with calm, fading assurances. Dark eyes weakly caught Castiel's approach, a deep sadness there as he knelt down in the grass next to them.

"Cas, what do we do?" demanded Sam in a higher voice, his grief making the sound of it almost unrecognizable.

"I am to die," Ezekiel said quietly, his tone indicating that he had already accepted his poor fortune. He was clearly in a great amount of pain, his broad chest stuttering as he tried to draw breath. The bright spear of grace that wept from his wound was not beautiful at all, but a mocking reminder that it would not be long.

"I know," replied Castiel, looking at the treachery with an empty feeling.

"Cas, you have to help him!" Sam uttered in a begging voice, not understanding why his friend was doing nothing. "Fucking _do_ something!"

Castiel shook his head, swallowing thickly. "If we remove the blade, he will die. If we do not, he will die anyway."

Sam's reaction to that was devastating, his eyes going back to the angel in denial.

Ezekiel's drifting gaze was rueful and contrite. "I am sorry, Castiel. I had… had to protect them. The _children_ … I couldn't let them come to harm. Are they safe?" He knew that he was needed here. That so many were counting on him. He was powerful and cunning, if he had only kept his focus on the battle and destroying the threat, he would not have let his guard down. But that call in him to protect had been too strong. He had heard their frightened cries and went to them without hesitation, defending them instead of his own flank. In the end, he had simply not been able to stop being a guardian. Ezekiel was willing to die, so that others would not have to.

"You did the right thing, brother," Castiel told him, crestfallen. "They're safe. Thank you."

Relief was prevalent in Ezekiel's eyes, and some of that tension in his shoulders eased. "And Hael?"

"She will live," Castiel assured him. The words lodged in his throat, and it took everything in him to remember how to breathe. Beside him, Sam was holding the angel upright, looking on him with deep remorse, feeling completely powerless and alone. "Ezekiel…" Castiel began, gripping his shoulder gently in deference. "Who is responsible for this?"

"The anarchist," his brother uttered, managing a look of true repulsion.

Castiel's countenance darkened. "Malachi."

_There are more factions_ , Bartholomew had warned him. _Others you have to fear than just me_.

"He followed me… here," Ezekiel despaired, shaking his head. His fault. "He came for me. This… this is because of _me_."

"No, Ezekiel." Castiel's face fell still, blue eyes drowning in sorrow. He stared at his older brother helplessly, a barrage of guilt brimming at the surface inside him with stunning finality. No, this was not Ezekiel's fault at all.

The angel had turned dark eyes on Sam, an unerring warmth there. He regarded the human with loyalty, with utter pride. "Sam, listen to me…"

"Zeke, don't you dare start this goodbye shit—"

"You will find Gadreel."

"I need you to _teach me_ ," Sam insisted, his hazel eyes imploring. "I'm not strong enough yet. We _need_ you—"

Ezekiel regarded him as though he so badly wished he could grant this human's wish. He weakly slid up a hand to lay it over the hunter's heart. "It's in you, Sam. You must do this. I said I have faith in you, and I do, boy. I'm sorry I won't be there to help you. To be your friend. I'm so very sorry." Ezekiel wore an expression of utter defeat, a deep sorrow filling him at the thought that he was letting Sam Winchester down. He could feel his life slowly trickling away, could feel the cold starting to steal over him. The fiery mass of pain at his side was destroying him from the inside out, slowly and agonizingly. He did not have the time left that either of them needed so desperately now.

Castiel felt a vice close around his heart as his older brother met his eyes. "I will do it," he said quietly of the unspoken request.

Reaching out, he tightly took hold of the blade's handle in his shaking grip. Ezekiel regarded him gratefully, the _thank you_ he spoke aloud sounding calm and resolute.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked in a broken voice from beside him, dreading to know and yet realizing the answer.

"There's no reason for him to suffer needlessly," Castiel replied at length. His throat felt tight, and his eyes and face became hot. His vision swam as he met his brother's eyes for the final time, blurring at the edges. His breathing hitched at the ghost of a smile he saw there.

Before he could do the unthinkable, Ezekiel put his hand over his, briefly stalling him. "You know Metatron's weakness, Castiel."

His lips parted somewhat in surprise, but no protest followed. After the Fall, he had spent months trying to reach the Scribe—shouting at the sky, threatening, begging, cajoling. Nothing had worked. If there was a secret knowledge in his arsenal, he would have surely used it by now. But the way Ezekiel was looking at him said otherwise. Heartache gripped him.

"You always have."

With an imperceptible nod, Ezekiel was ready.

Castiel's expression changed, a struggling resoluteness filling him. Setting his jaw against the way it shook, he gripped the handle of the blade tighter and twisted hard. Light and grace exploded outwards in a stunning display, bathing them both in holy radiance. Its loud, piercing blast shook the camp, the light washing out everything else but for the feel of the weapon in his hand.

Ezekiel went quickly and peacefully, but Castiel felt neither of those things.

When it was over, Castiel stared stonily, inconsolably, at his fingers still wrapped around the lustrous steel. The light faded to a dim flicker until it was gone completely, and he slowly removed the blade. In his own chest there was a fierce determination forming that he wasn't sure what to do with. He didn't know why it was there or where it belonged, only that it was slowly eating away at him. He sat still and otherwise unmoving as a statue, unable to do little else but take in the deafening silence around him.

Castiel stared again at the blade as though he'd never seen it before, the blood on his hands stark and condemning as he fell victim at last to the indescribable grief that tore into him, leaving him gutted and raw. There was an emptiness he hadn't felt in a long time, back at the forefront of his mind. He sat in a daze, unaware of the minutes ticking by until he turned his head to see Sam looking at him hopelessly.

Castiel dropped the blade and it landed in the grass with a dull thud, echoing in accusation.

* * *

_another day in this carnival of souls_   
_the memories of shadows, ink on the page_   
_and I can't seem to find my way home_   
_your heaven's trying everything to keep me out_

* * *

It was hours later that Castiel found himself on his knees in the dirt, face buried in his hands, fingers knotting in his hair as his dead siblings surrounded him. Muriel, Azrael, Theo, Camael, Amesha, Jophiel, Temeluchus… all dead.

There was pain he couldn't account for. Pain surrounding him, pain consuming him, and it just _hurt_ so fucking much. He thought about Ezekiel, he thought about Hael. How he'd heaved several deep, impassioned breaths as he clutched the small body of his injured sister to himself protectively and felt how close she was to fading away forever.

How, incensed, he'd tipped his head back and looked up at the sky in deep accusation.

Somehow, he'd ended up back in his cabin because he was staring at the walls, feeling confined, feeling trapped, feeling as though the floor were dropping out from under him. Fury and pain coursed through him white-hot, roaring in his head, making it hard for him to breathe, hard for him to think. His blood seemed too hot, his skin too tight, and his head was whirling as his thoughts spun round and round, out of control. As his fists clenched, he could feel his body starting to shake with rage. His eyes slammed shut as he pulled in on himself. Anger—at himself, at Malachi, at Ezekiel for dying, at Metatron, at the world—rose up to choke him.

Castiel lashed out, seizing the lamp on the table next to him and hurling it to the floor, watching with distant satisfaction as the tattered shade snapped off and the bulb burst into a hundred pieces. He bent and swept his arm over the end table beside him, sending weapons and ammo and a picture of he and Hael spinning through the air. Glass crashed and shattered, metal sang as it bounced off the wall and left a pockmarked scar, but it still wasn't enough. He grabbed the bottle of sangria Meg had found and hurled it against the opposite wall and, with a crack like a gunshot breaking the brief silence, the glass exploded, shards of crystal spraying outwards in a fan of sharp rain. The liquid trickled down the surface like streaks of blood to puddle on the naked hardwood below. They'd been planning to share it when they got back as a celebration of making it out alive. Castiel could barely stand to look at it now. He shoved over the dresser and the bookshelf, wood splitting against the floor. His fists pounded angry dents into the wall beside him, his mind barely registering the pain and focusing only on the need to break and destroy everything he could.

He stood there in the center of the room, at the eye of his destruction, breathing hard and feeling utterly and completely alone. Painfully aware of the growing emptiness in his chest.

As fast as the temper had surged through him like a swift moving storm, it ebbed away, leaving him drained and exhausted. The anger started to fade, defeat starting to seep into every corner of his body. Castiel stared dazedly down at his feet, as though the worn leather might offer him the answers he so desperately needed now. All energy seemed to bleed out of him and, knees buckling, he sank down, his back against the wall in the corner of the room. He drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head between them, unable to look at what he'd done and needing—just for a moment—to dwell in darkness.

That was where Meg found him several minutes later. Quietly, she stepped over the wrecked furniture and broken glass, making her way to him. He didn't react when she knelt in front of him, body folding almost soundlessly, not until she laid a hand over his arm. Castiel raised his head, looking back at her with sad eyes. They were cloudy with checked despair, reflecting the heaviness of his spirit, and he appeared to nearly bow in on himself at the sight of her. He didn't need to ask to know that the death toll was even more than what he'd believed before. Meg's expression was a rare moue of sympathy, her own shoulders slumping as she saw a man who had lost more than he had any right to, who had saved and guarded and sacrificed until he was bled dry and then got back up to do it all over again. She looked at him with a hesitant expression, not sure what she could possibly do for him, not sure how to exorcise that unbridled sorrow he wore so clearly and so defeatedly. She took up one of his hands, wordlessly taking in the scraped, bloody knuckles and seeing how it still shook until he curled it into a fist.

"A fine mess you've made, lover," she remarked softly, almost to herself.

Castiel's brow drew together in quiet anger, in a dismay so profound it shook him. "I am not worth dying for," he said tightly, shaking his head. His voice was low at first, sounding hollow and foreign to her and carrying a mournful note she deeply felt. Meg knew without asking that he wasn't just talking about the angels. Castiel choked back something that could have been a sob, forcibly ignoring the way his chest clenched at the reminder of all he had lost today, and all he'd lost since he first set foot on this godforsaken earth. "I am not worth…"

He couldn't even finish the thought, partly because the stricken words lodged in his throat and partly because Meg had already pulled him into a tight embrace. Castiel's rant died down, overridden by the sudden relief in the gesture, but also by the unwelcome influx of emotion it sought to drag out of him. _Retreat_ , the grieving voice in his head advised, but he ignored it, _needing_ that desperate ache that was consuming him to go away. Needing her to fix what was wrong with him, what was breaking him.

Meg pressed her lips over the top of his head, fingers carding gently through his hair. "I know, Castiel."

He didn't make a sound at first, but Meg felt the shudder rock through him, heard the short intake of air as his breathing hitched. After a long moment, she felt his fingers reach up to catch in her jacket, keeping her from letting go. Meg kissed his hair again, allowing him the time he needed, the solace he needed. Whatever he needed.

Castiel remained tense, disconsolate but for the feel of her against him. Every cell, every membrane of his body, felt wracked with guilt and loss, but Meg was here. With him. He listened to the quiet sound of her breathing as his fortitude frayed at the edges, drawing strength from her presence. As a flood of grief assailed him, indescribable pain burrowing deeply into his chest, he imagined her telling him to pull himself together. But there were no pithy teasing words, just the warmth from her skin on his and the comfort of her arms holding him together. Just Meg's voice murmuring quiet assurances in his ear, anchoring him when nothing else could. His stomach churned, body shuddering with fresh anguish at the relief he didn't deserve. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face against her as the tears began to roll down his cheeks.

Meg could only wait and listen as the creature she'd come to believe personified strength sucked in one ragged breath after another and fell completely apart in her arms.

The storm that had been raging inside him since entering the cabin broke loose finally and the floodgates opened to the torrent of emotion pouring out of him as Castiel began to sob. He grieved and grieved, not knowing how to stop and honestly feeling as though his world was crashing down.

Meg held on a little tighter, reminding Castiel that he wasn't alone.

* * *

_angels, lend me your might_   
_forfeit all my lives to get just one right_   
_never were we told_   
_that we'd be bought and sold_   
_when we were innocent_

* * *

The following day, that bereft despair was replaced by a mechanical numbness that left Castiel cold and unfeeling. Forty dead at the camp—he wondered briefly if that was some sort of omen. Kevin, Charlie, and Garth were still alive; they'd been out on a run when the attack came. Hael would live, though with possible permanent damage.

But Ezekiel? Risa? The countless other siblings he'd lost, the humans struck down in the crossfire?

Castiel stood in the deserted field just outside the camp as the first fires of dawn erupted on the horizon. His armor was back in place, the walls around his fortitude rebuilt, now stronger and more impenetrable than ever.

To the sky, to the world beyond his reach, he spoke. Low and menacing.

"I don't know where you are, Malachi. But I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch." The ice-cold threat tightened his tone, all compassion frozen over in the arctic chill of his expression. Eyes brilliant with suppressed anger, Castiel lost all rationale, all sense of mercy and righteousness. "There is nowhere on this earth you can hide, do you hear me?" Absolution was flat and unforgiving. "Listen closely, because you'd better have an army by the time I find you. Because I'm going to fucking obliterate you."

He had no further to fall. Nothing else to lose.

"See you soon, brother."

* * *

_so crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down_   
_I'll never wear your broken crown_   
_now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace_   
_in this twilight, our choices seal our fate_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS
> 
> Enochian:
> 
> "Esezomi." / My friend.
> 
> "Esiach." / Brother.
> 
> "Etharsi, azian." / Be calm, precious one.
> 
> "Ol om." / I know.
> 
> "Eophan. Ese gahalana, od ese salb hom. Ol isro, ol isro." / I'm sorry. She will live, and be well again. I promise, I promise.


	6. Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in almost two years after a hell gone topside and constant arid heat, there were temperature fluctuations. Electrical storms. Animal mutilations. Nature tearing itself apart in small ways in dreaded anticipation of what was to come.
> 
> Three short months, and Lucifer would rise.

**OMENS**

_while at the gates of paradise they beat us down some more_   
_but our mission's set in stone because the writing's on the wall_   
_I'll scream it from the mountaintops: pride comes before the fall_   
_if the truth will set you free, I feel sorry for your soul_   
_can't you hear the ringing 'cause for you the bell tolls_

* * *

21 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

_You're gonna get me killed, and the funny part is… I don't even really care. Says something about the world, don't it? Or maybe something about me._

Her voice rang in his head, low sonorous notes that haunted him as the flames from the funeral pyre reflected in his eyes. Dean watched, expressionless, as the inferno devoured her body, searing fingers stretching towards the sky, towards him. He'd dreamt about her the night before, dancing in the fire, twirling with flames and leaving footprints in the ash of burnt remains and angel wings. Dean remembered looking into Risa's eyes and thinking maybe, when it was all over, that they could have something more real. But now she was gone with nothing but the barest of bones remaining.

_Salt and burn._

_What's dead should stay dead._

Those damn angels, those goddamn demons, all those monsters taking everything from him one soul after another. With cold, empty satisfaction, Dean thought… _good_. One less distraction. One less obligation to his humanity. Risa was better off dead, gone from this rotting cesspool, away from _him_.

Dean was ready to jump into that fiery abyss. To escape from morality's cloying grip. Strengths reversed, human desire submersed and purged. Every cell pleaded for that torch to pass, to hand over the destiny he'd been waiting for—just let him finish off this unbearable dirge.

No sense weeping over singed memories or impossible tragedies. No sense mourning scarred skin as it burned hot under the sleeve of his jacket. _Set ablaze that darkness within_ , the voice whispered, archaic and primal. _Grasp onto serenity, cling onto clarity. Fuel the flame._ His thoughts became disjoined and warring until a dark calm engulfed the chaos.

There was peace after pain, let it be said.

Dean abandoned every promise. That former spark of hope would not be rising from the ashes this time.

There was love behind hate, they said.

But they were wrong. Filled with rage and vile thirst for death, cruel reality was consumed that day. Wooden heart spiteful and cold, Dean Winchester faded out from the world that was never meant for him.

* * *

_one more monster crawled inside_   
_but I swear I saw it die_   
_can you save me from the nothing I've become_   
_I abandoned this love and laid it to rest_   
_now I'm one of the forgotten_

* * *

Hael was motionless beneath the threadbare sheets, chest barely rising in time with her shallow breaths. There was a dusting of bruises beneath her closed eyes and her skin was unnaturally pale against the warm glow of daylight easing through the blinds. They'd set her up in a private cabin, one of the few still standing. It was otherwise empty and would serve as a medical recovery shelter until Hael was well enough to no longer require such measures. There was a tragic poetry to the notion that she had been Camp Chitaqua's first angel inhabitant, and was now also its last.

Though she didn't require sustenance or physical care, Castiel hated the idea of her being alone. She may have been unaware of her surroundings, but he was here at least an hour every day, sometimes more. He sat in a far corner of the room, just beside the window, his back starting to ache and the crick in his neck finally making him notice just how many hours he'd been here already. In his lap, Aubrey stirred restlessly, curling into a tighter ball. She made a quiet sound in her sleep, lips pursed into a fretful frown. Castiel lifted a hand, smoothing it gently over her hair. Aubrey seemed comforted, despite that he was merely going through the motions at this point, and her breathing evened back out.

Castiel turned his gaze back on his sister. Hael was lost to coma—hopefully one that was benefitting her. She needed much time to heal, and without any Rit Zien left alive to lend help, the road to recovery would be longer and more bleak.

By the placement of the sun, he was already late for his rounds. Wherever Meg was, she apparently wasn't concerned by his absence. Castiel wasn't even sure if her negligence bothered him. It should have. But… since Malachi's attack on the camp, he rarely felt much of anything anymore. It had only been a week, but surely his grieving period should have been over by now. He couldn't be certain if it was better this way or not—this numb, empty sensation or the feeling of utter heartbreak it seemed to alternate with when he wasn't paying attention, or when small eddies of emotion slipped past his well-constructed defenses so that he was left dry heaving in the bushes during a run. His body seemed to be betraying him lately, every emotion in general a terrible nuisance he couldn't shake.

Castiel's reflection inevitably shifted back to Meg and he set his jaw anxiously. There was a contemplative murk to his running thoughts, evidenced behind the dark tint his eyes adopted. He had more questions than answers these days. More doubts than he dared admit. There was a perpetual itch between his shoulder blades, a creeping ilk of unease that refused to permit him any rest, be it mental or physical. He rubbed at the skin between his brows, willing away the ache developing there.

A shadow fell over his face, his brow drawing onerously inward once his hand fell away. He had decisions to make, leads to follow up on. It left him with a hollow feeling inside, one that brought him further unease than he was already burdened with.

How exactly had he gone from trusting at the drop of a hat to trusting no one at all?

This was not the first time he'd had to make impossible decisions. He lost heart over the position he found himself in again, knowing that every time he was cornered in such a way, he'd made a disaster of things. As such, he had an innate feeling of dread inside that wouldn't die away. It resonated in his thoughts, smothering him with painful reminders and a dozen or so outcomes that were each more stressing than the last.

Before those thoughts could take an even more gruesome turn, Castiel rose from his chair, Aubrey cradled in his arms. He carried her to the bed, laying her down gently beside Hael. The child immediately nuzzled up against her friend, tiny hands slipping into black waves of hair as though a security blanket. Castiel offered the pair a final look, wishing he had the strength and power to heal them both in that moment. Knowing he was little more than a man—and a poor example of one at that—he left them, taking up his bow from against the threshold as he slipped out.

On the porch, he crossed paths with Jody Mills, who offered him a sympathetic look the second their eyes met. It wasn't pitying, which he appreciated, merely supportive in that natural way she had. The former sheriff, in Hael's absence, had taken on the mantle of caregiver to the children of the camp. She often visited the comatose angel, dropping in both for wordless support and to make sure that Aubrey was receiving the rest and nutrients she needed in her time of grief.

Jody was gentle with the girl, with his sister—in every way compassionate and kind. Castiel valued that devotion she bore to them both, and he genuinely liked the woman. Despite this, he couldn't find it within himself to offer much of a greeting.

"Hey, Cas," Jody said, understanding of his silence and taking no offense.

"Jody."

"Any change?"

Castiel shook his head, averting his eyes from her probing gaze. Jody was too observant, too perceptive of emotions—no matter how deeply suppressed. Castiel couldn't acknowledge such things right now. He had other matters, other responsibilities.

But Jody had yet to move. "Look, honey… I know you've taken a page out of the Winchester handbook on how to bury all that man pain, and that's okay. People grieve in different ways. But if you need anything… hell, I don't know. Just know that there are people around here who care about you."

There was something about the Mills woman. Something that made her company alone in many ways a comfort. Castiel could appreciate that, even if he remained avoidant of it.

"Thank you, Jody. I mean that."

Her lips quirked up. "I know you do." She gave his arm a quick squeeze and a swat, nodding her head for him to go on. "If you need a break, I can watch the munchkin the next few days. Gonna take her home with me for awhile, I think."

Castiel nodded, his eyes inevitably straying back over his shoulder into the cabin, taking in the sight of Aubrey nestled in against his sister. "That's… good. She needs someone who can look after her better than I can."

An arduous remorse crept over his shoulders, but Jody was already speaking through his haze of guilt. "I wouldn't sell yourself short. You mean a lot to that little girl. She needs you, even if she doesn't know how to say it." Jody jerked her head towards the steps, smiling a little. "Mosey off. Find that cranky she-devil and relax awhile. You deserve some peace after all this. If you weren't already taken, I'd lend a hand myself."

Her eyes sparkled at him, crimping at their corners, and Castiel allowed a meager smile to lift his mouth, knowing she was attempting to cheer him up. Jody brushed past him and he looked out into the day, the brief boost of spirit he'd felt falling away.

Was he? Taken?

Castiel didn't feel like he belonged to anyone right now.

* * *

_all my heroes have now become ghosts_   
_sold their sorrow for the ones who paid the most_   
_all my heroes are dead and gone_

* * *

" _Eaohnvozi_."

In the center of his cabin, amid rolled out blankets and burning sage, Sam sat in a lax position. His legs were crossed beneath his body, hands resting loose on his thighs as he concentrated deeply. His breaths came slow and controlled, his focus like a pinprick against the void as he gently cast out his awareness.

" _Eaohnvozi_ ," murmured Sam again to himself, concentrating on the life force that remained far away and out of reach.

_You have a connection to him_ , said Zeke's voice in his thoughts. Somewhere near and yet not. Lost amid a flurry of distractions he worked to dissipate. _Trust it. Use it_.

Sam spoke the sacred phrase once more, waited, said it again.

He breathed in deep, holding the air in his lungs and channeling both patience and the flickering remnant of light still locked away somewhere inside him. With his mind, he touched it, sensing the ember of Creation, cradling the grace with a mental caress until he learned it completely. It became as familiar as the palm of his own hand.

In meditation, his sight was not limited. Not by any means. He could see beyond what he'd been able to even when he'd had the use of both his eyes.

An intense sense of calm gently took hold of his consciousness, warm electric vibrations spreading over his body from his legs upwards. His mind felt unbelievably clear. Absolute and nearly omniscient. Thought left him completely until all he knew was the grace. Of its own accord, his soul sought out the grace's owner. His mind became separate from him, from his body. It reached out across the distance, calling silently.

The beat of Sam's heart thudded slow against his ribs. The vibrations engulfed his body until it seemed almost to _pulse_. Energy he'd never felt before expanded in his chest, his physical body forgotten in his search.

Sam looked into the vast and empty wasteland spread out before him. He could see all around and all at once, driven not only by sight but by the very corporeal sensation of being able to _feel_ everything around him with clarity and alertness beyond anything he had experienced in the physical world. Everything felt fluid, _alive_ , and radiating different kinds of limitless energy.

The memory of his human senses seemed gray in comparison.

Sam mentally reached out, pressing against invisible barriers in search of Gadreel. To think the name momentarily impeded his carefully constructed process, as a surge of emotion boiled at his core, but Sam quickly discarded it, concentrating on that flow of ripples that became like a beacon to his mind's eye. He followed the patterns like a trail of maps laid out, each obstacle a new riddle he had to solve.

It became easier and easier, as effortless as breathing.

His pulse fluttered, senses pinpointing across timeless distances.

He found him.

Sam felt his consciousness seize hold of that iridescent configuration of light, surging forward, and—suddenly—he was Gadreel. He was looking at the world through the angel's eyes, seeing what he saw, _how_ he saw, the things he _felt_. Wading through the eddy of shame and regret before him, Sam focused on what he was looking at.

An unremarkable room.

Decrepit. Falling apart in places. Dangerous to a human, not to an angel.

_I need to be sure of your fidelity._

Suddenly, Sam found himself staring into the face of Metatron.

Paralyzed, stunned, horrified—fear and confusion abruptly gripped him. Sam retreated, pushed down against the vibrations, felt the feelings and the vision rapidly vanish, and awareness slammed back into him with jarring force.

Sam gasped, snapping out of the trace, completely alert and ramrod straight as his chest worked with heavy breaths. His heart pounded now against his ribcage unrelentingly as his mind reeled at what he'd seen.

Gadreel was working for Metatron?

Having no idea what this meant, Sam could only work to get his breathing back under control and chase that knowledge in hopes to link himself again to the angel, but his efforts ended now in vain. His concentration wild and errant with racing thoughts, he mourned the broken connection and knew it would be a long time before he'd be able to find Gadreel again.

* * *

_all the places I've been and things I've seen_   
_a million stories that made up a million shattered dreams_   
_the faces of people I'll never see again_

* * *

Kevin handed over the translations, awaiting his companion's verdict.

Over the past several months, he'd hit a wall translating the tablet into English. The worst of it was having to translate off memory and what few photos they'd taken of it, since the angel possessing Sam had stolen the tablet itself in his escape. After Kevin had done some digging in the bunker—which Dean had already chewed his ass out for having left the camp's walls on his own—he'd found an ancient codex linking the angel script to Proto-Elamite cuneiform and was able to translate most of Metatron's footnotes into Elamite.

_Doodles_ , Dean had put in sourly, glaring at the result. Sam had regarded his efforts with no small measure of disillusionment, but with a much more open mind. Kevin was grateful. The task had taken weeks, and he'd slept very little throughout the process. Interacted very little with others. Because of it, he was going a little stir crazy and felt anxious for someone to appreciate what he had done.

Most of the extinct language was abstract, but he'd at least been able to decipher one phrase from the notes. _Falling angels_. Nonetheless, scholars had tried for centuries to translate Proto-Elamite into English and repeatedly failed. Needless to say, Kevin understood their skepticism.

_No one can read it_ , he had told them, admittedly disappointed that he'd painted them somewhat into yet another dead end. Dean was already sulking away, but Sam looked at him thoughtfully, a clear idea forming in the midst of his consideration.

_Maybe no one who's been human their whole life_ , he pointed out.

Now, Kevin waited with waning patience, shifting anxiously.

Castiel looked over the notes, wearing his usual concentrated frown as he scanned the markings.

"Anything?" Kevin prodded.

Cas actually looked angry. "No."

The prophet deflated. "I thought you'd be able to read it?"

"I can read it. I just know what it says, and it's a waste of time." Castiel shoved the papers back into his hands, turning away in aggravation as he made to leave.

"Whoa, hey!" Kevin scrambled after him, becoming indignant. "I busted my ass over this—there's gotta be _something_!"

Castiel ignored his protests, bypassing the prophet's disgruntlement in favor of a moody exit. " _Obtain the ingredients. Heart of a nephilim. Cupid's bow. Grace of an angel. Unite, and smoke shall rise from the ashes, casting the angels out of Heaven_. Nothing we didn't already know."

"Then why are you acting like a dick? You're obviously pissed. Maybe you weren't skipping through a field of daisies when I brought these to you, but you weren't this—"

"It says the spell is irreversible, Kevin."

The boy abruptly quieted, his countenance falling as Castiel rounded on him with a heated expression to deliver those words. "What?" Castiel didn't respond and Kevin shook his head. "You mean we're _stuck_ with this new world order? The _fuck_?"

"However you want to put it, that's what it says."

"But you don't believe that?"

Castiel hesitated, his harsh expression softening some as he looked down at the young man. "I can't believe that. Metatron is a liar. I'm sure he lied in his notes."

Kevin's shoulders sagged and, with a sigh, he looked down in defeat. "You _hope_ he lied."

A muscle worked in Castiel's jaw and he deliberated over what to say. "You could have just showed these to Meg," he eventually said, watching his company carefully. She and Kevin had been working together a lot lately. Meg often went on runs for him. She considered the legwork to be boring and often complained how she was stuck on babysitting duty whenever she'd been assigned to the boy.

Kevin shook his head. "I wasn't sure she could read them. I mean, you're the oldest person I know. Plus, you know… this is kind of your deal." He looked up at Castiel, something approaching sympathy hidden away in his eyes. He knew Cas loathed being reminded of the Fall, especially recently, and with… what had happened. Kevin felt a belated sense of guilt for having brought this to him in the first place—at least so soon after his friend's loss. Perhaps it was inconsiderate of him…

He'd been so locked in his own head these past few days that he hadn't even thought—

"Where is she?"

Kevin blinked at the deviation of topic. "Meg? Haven't seen her in awhile."

Castiel's eyes narrowed in that inimitable way he had, but the sight was almost intimidating now. Something about him was suddenly very dark.

Kevin balked under the unexpected intensity, not quite understanding the reason for it. "Hey. Meg's been really helping me out, lately. You should… go easy on her."

Castiel looked at him, quiet for a long time. "Why would I need to go easy on her? She's done nothing wrong."

"No, obviously, yeah. I just mean…" Kevin struggled over the inner workings of angels and demons, not for the first time. Meg had been in a pissy mood lately, too. She didn't outwardly complain, which was itself an oddity, but he could tell something was eating at her. And, since the snarky little demon really didn't have any other close relationships at the camp, or at all, Kevin had assumed her shitty mood was because of Castiel.

"You sent her on a supply run to Beloit," the fallen angel was saying. He almost looked like he was working something over in his thoughts, cogs turning behind that glacier stare.

"Yeah?"

"And she hasn't returned yet?"

Kevin shrugged, wondering if he should worry too. "I guess not. I'm sure she's fine."

Castiel knew that. Of course Meg was fine. He could feel it when she wasn't. There was dread in the pit of his gut that had him feeling stressed, but it wasn't the usual dread that came when she was in danger. He looked away grimly, boots grinding the dirt beneath his feet as he turned again to go. "She should be back."

"Cas—"

" _Kevin_ ," he snapped, and his voice carried a great deal of its old authority, startling the boy. "We're done here. If you're able to translate anything else, let me know."

Kevin shrank back a step and watched him go, feeling his nerves settle as the distance grew between them. He felt diminutive and chastened at the virulent brush off. A little sullen, too. "'Kay…"

Castiel may not have been an angel anymore, but he still scared the shit out of him sometimes.

And Meg… well, Kevin understood what it was to have people trying to keep you from doing what needed to be done. What it was to be suffocated and locked away because _you're too valuable to lose_. For well over a year, he'd had Dean—and in some cases, even Sam—breathing down his neck, forbidding him from missions beyond the safety of the camp's walls.

_Too dangerous._

_You're not ready._

_Too young._

_We need you_.

_You're a sentry, not a field scout._

Kevin inhaled deeply, letting the breath out in a long sigh. Meg would do what she needed to. So would he.

* * *

_far away through the pain_   
_I hear the angels calling_   
_far away through the pain_   
_I see my demons falling_

* * *

Black and starless eyes stared out against the sight, taking in the distance and what surrounded the ghost town.

For the first time in almost two years after a hell gone topside and constant arid heat, there were temperature fluctuations. Electrical storms. Animal mutilations. Nature tearing itself apart in small ways in dreaded anticipation of what was to come.

Three short months, and Lucifer would rise.

The omens all around her painted a vivid portrait, provided a macabre backdrop to her actions that wreathed her tangle of dark hair in a stunning crown. She stood, baleful against what she witnessed and yet smiling down in cold satisfaction at her handiwork.

_Easier to ask forgiveness_ , went the saying.

Unbidden, she thought suddenly of him. It startled her out of the militant focus, demanding her attention as clearly as if he'd been standing beside her.

* * *

ONE WEEK PRIOR

She hadn't been looking for him long—just long enough to start wondering where the hell he was. On her pass through the camp, she eventually spotted his bow and gear sitting outside the hippie lodge, of all places. Well… it was Ed and Harry's cabin, technically, but the place was often frequented by the dope smokers and pot farmers of the camp. Meg wondered what the hell he was doing there.

With a bewildered scowl, Meg's boots carried her up the rickety steps. She made a sour face at the beads hanging in the doorway and rapped twice on the jamb. "Knock knock, potheads." She stepped in and was met with an immediate wall of the flagrant odor—strong enough to make even _her_ eyes water. "Mother of sin," she muttered, waving a hand in front of her face.

To her surprise, Cas and Ed Zeddmore were seated opposite the table from each other in the open entryway. Her angel's forearms were bared over the surface while Ed worked away with a needle. The faint, droning buzz explained the fresh ink at least on his skin—and the reason why Castiel was _here_ , of all places. There weren't a lot of artists at the camp, even fewer of them tattoo artists.

"Sup, Meggers?" Ed murmured, barely acknowledging her presence as he concentrated on his work. From the couch in the back, Harry Spangler offered her a lazy salute, a bong hugged faithfully to his chest. Meg briefly recognized Maggie, Ed's sister. Spruce, and Ambyr as well—all scattered about the room. She remembered that the cabin next door had been one of the ones burned to a cinder, so all the little _Ghostfacers_ appeared to be back under one roof again because of it.

_That's kismet for you_ , the demon thought with salty derision. Meg plastered a smile on her face. "Well, ain't this a fabulous embarrassment of riches."

Castiel didn't even look up.

Meg raised an eyebrow, addressing the new ink. "Finding all new ways to rebel, are we?"

Despite the lighthearted jibe, she regarded the Enochian runes with somber eyes, identifying them as the names of each fallen sibling as they climbed along the inside of each wrist. Beside his hands, there was a scrap of paper with the same syllabary and Meg recognized Castiel's handwriting.

"This is what humans do, isn't it?" he said, tired eyes combing over the handiwork grimly. "Commemorate loss?"

Meg noted the bottle of alcohol beside him, pushing off from the jamb and crossing over to them with a shrug. "You need to be drunk for a tattoo? Didn't think pain bothered you that much."

Castiel's eyes didn't raise to meet hers. "I'm in mourning, Meg."

"I know, feathers," she muttered, reaching out and running her hand briefly over the back of his head, through his hair.

"All done, my man," Ed said, securing the last bit of dressing over his work.

"Thank you."

Castiel rose from his seat, abandoning the bottle of liquor and its remains, which Ed happily claimed and began chugging. He then tossed it over to Harry to pass around. The fallen angel brushed past Meg, stepping back out into the sun. She followed after him, catching his elbow and darting in front of him.

"Hey."

Castiel merely stared at her, saying nothing.

Meg felt unbearably transparent right then, and she shifted her weight uncomfortably. "I'm not good at this kind of shit."

"I know."

"Just… if you need something… tell me. Okay?" It was hard to look at him when she was being so willingly open, and she'd sooner stick her hand on a hot iron. Castiel nodded faintly, blue eyes skirting from hers as well. He was scruffier than usual, less put together too. Despondent and completely removed, even when he was standing right in front of her. Meg grabbed at the front of his shirt, tugging a little. "Want me for anything? I'm due for some bloodshed."

"No. Help Kevin. I have things I need to do."

"Alright," she muttered, narrowing her eyes a little. Ignoring how slighted she felt at his dismissal, Meg stood on her toes, giving him a brief kiss that he barely responded to. "Later, stranger," she said to his retreating back.

* * *

Meg shook the memory, reining her focus back in to where it belonged.

A studded boot crossed over another body, carrying her between them as though avoiding drops of rain. A bloody angel blade was gripped in her hand, a tight, malevolent expression claiming her face. As she passed over the last smoking corpse, Meg stooped low to regard the struggling demon at her feet.

"Look at you, all helpless."

Her lone survivor spat out a mouthful of blood, it's own eyes black and bottomless in the face of her eerie calm. "Bitch, when Crowley gets his hands on you…"

Meg's face split in a sinister smile, and she casually wiped the blood from her blade onto her companion's jacket. "I suppose that was meant to scare me."

The demon stared at her balefully. "You Lucifer loyalists," it snarled. "You think Hell can be ruled on chaos alone."

"Oh, come on," Meg purred, letting her tone drip superiority. "Chaos is what makes the fires burn strong, baby. Now," she began, deliberately sliding the tip of her weapon over its skin in a quietly menacing way. "Are you gonna be my little harbinger, or do I stick this fancy poker in your pretty meatsack's face?" At her fellow demon's mulish silence, Meg tsked. "Tick tock. I have a camp of sappy survivors to get back to."

It's glare was an almost physical blow and Meg dimpled sweetly in the face of it. "What's the message?" it muttered scornfully.

Meg's smile slowly fell, her visage becoming insidious and grave. "Tell your precious king of the crossroads that the new Queen sends her best. And you tell that smarmy dick that he'll be the first on Abaddon's list to eviscerate when Daddy comes home."

The demon absorbed the news, scowling up at her in loathing. "Go on then, whore. Back to those stupid head of cattle."

Meg rose slowly to her feet, black eyes burning down into Crowley's henchman with a chilling gratification. She brought her heel slamming down into its temple, effectively knocking it out. With dogged resolve, she turned on her heel, taking care to weave through the bodies she'd left in her wake.

All the while feeling abysmally at home.

Three months until Abaddon rose Lucifer. Three months for everything to fall apart in the worst way possible… or to fall into place, as she hoped it would. Meg was counting on the latter. She had to follow through, had to see it to the end, no matter what she felt and no matter what she had to do.

Everything had been set into motion.

* * *

_a voice screaming from within_   
_begging just to feel again_   
_can't find who I am without you near me_   
_you're the only one who saves me from myself_   
_I'm not, I'm not myself_   
_feel like I'm someone else_   
_fallen and faceless, so hollow inside_

* * *

22 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

He was a scourge.

No more supply raids, no more weekly missions. He had one mission—be ready. Make war.

Two months until Abaddon rose Lucifer. Two months before the epilogue of this fucking cesspool played itself out. Two months until he buried that Blade into the last Knight of Hell.

Every day, every night, he was here—well beyond the borderlands. Finding what targets he could. Croats, demons, looters, volatile angels, it didn't matter. Whatever obstruction arose was quickly and brutally dealt with.

Over the last month, Dean had spent his waking hours killing what needed killing. When he'd taken his first life with the Blade, time itself seemed to stutter. It was like a wall of clarity washing over him, through him, setting fire to his veins. The Blade became an extension of him, perfect and terrible in every way.

Untethered Dean was reckless, immersing himself in one self-destructive tear after another. Without Sam, a brother to temper that brash savagery, it felt good to run full-throttle. All in, with no reason to hit the brakes. Caution didn't exist when Dean was on his own. It was who he was, what he was, how he operated. The adrenaline, the rush… it made him feel alive. Was the only thing that could these days.

There were rare moments when the adrenaline faded and realization hit hard to the point where he was left trying to strip the taint of evil from his body. Clawing at the stains with his nails in an effort to erase the blood however he could. Those moments became fewer and fewer as the weeks dragged on. Because the blood kept flowing and it felt good, it felt right, because he lived to spill it. He lived to bring death.

Cain said he was worthy. All he knew after that was that he was a killer and he would kill Abaddon. Dean hoped when that moment finally came… he'd finally _feel_ worthy.

"Love the crazy bloodlust in your eyes," came a smooth, dark voice.

Dean tensed at the sudden, familiar tone. He hesitated, staring down at the decimated corpse at his feet before twisting the Blade out from its ribs. Turning, he wiped the splatter of blood from his face with the back of his hand. His shoulder was dislocated, he could tell. Could feel the shooting pain dull in the back of his mind, a tightness in his chest. For some reason, Dean thought it should have hurt more. He reached up, popping it back into place with a hard grunt.

"Hello, Dean."

"Crowley."

"I hope you appreciate my visiting you, and what exactly it's costing me to be out in the open like this." The demon dusted imaginary specks of dirt off his shoulder. Dean slowly advanced, knuckles splashing white against the hilt of his weapon in growing anticipation. Crowley eyed the move with distaste, but held his ground. "Now, now. Play nice. I come bearing gifts."

"Oh, really? And what's that?"

"Locations. To the whereabouts of some of Abby's lieutenants. More bodies for you to poke with your new toy. And not in the sexy way." Crowley held out a slip of paper that Dean eyed suspiciously and he smiled coolly. "You're welcome."

Bristling at the demon's audacity, Dean was curt. "And here I was having so much fun ganking _your_ little pissants," he muttered frigidly, taking the paper and looking over it with skeptical eyes.

"Come again?"

The hunter eyed him pointedly. "Your little plant we ran into last month."

Crowley shook his head, affecting an oblivious attitude. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. My boys have all been on their best behaviors, keeping low. Attempting to evade… hiccups."

Dean's eyes narrowed malevolently. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Crowley lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Believe me, don't believe me. Couldn't give a steaming shit."

Dean was silent awhile, staring down at the paper he held in his hand before he lifted it up, eyes burning into the demon across from him. "You think I don't know what this is?"

"It's a piece of paper, of which I've taken the time to scribe the names and locations of annoying bastards. A laundry list of things for the Blade's new master to kill, if you will. Do have fun."

"You want me to work for you," Dean derisively surmised. His glower was accusing and baleful and he clenched his jaw all the tighter. "Maybe you even want your own Knight of Hell."

Crowley smirked. "You're not as stupid as you look, male model. Although, you realize that in order to be a Knight, you'd have to be a demon. As grumpy and volatile as you are, you don't exactly fit the bill."

"Not happening, either way."

"'Fraid it's already happening, friend. Matter of time." The demon wore a smug smirk and his voice was soft like silky midnight. Crowley considered him, dark eyes examining him thoughtfully. "Haven't you noticed? The more you kill, the better you feel? The less you kill… the _less_ better you feel? Come now—surely you must have known it inevitable once you took on the mantle. It's the bloody Mark of Cain."

Dean visibly reacted to the words, expression twisting darkly at the overtones. "I'm not working for you, Crowley."

Crowley smiled, the sight a dangerous one. "Maybe not right now, Squirrel. But soon enough that urge to bugger all and go take a howl at the moon is going to get to you." The King turned gradually on his heel, tossing a final farewell over his shoulder as he sauntered away. "Enjoy the apocalypse. I plan on starting my own when Wilma's in the ground. You might consider treating me a little nicer, since I'll likely be the only one left rooting for you when the curtains close. Tootles, Dino."

Dean stared down at his feet, a muscle working in his jaw. He became so lost in murky rumination that he startled a bit when Crowley's contemplative grunt indicated he had yet to leave.

"By the way…" The demon hesitated, and his expression was sly and knowing. "Tell Castiel he should be keeping an eye on that little pet of his. Can't imagine the nasty things she's been up to when he isn't looking."

Crowley was gone by the time he blinked.

The demon's parting words were left ringing in his ears and Dean absorbed it all, a million questions cropping up at everything he'd just heard. He looked down at his hands, covered in blood. It would be gone in a few washes, and the evidence of his actions would be erased, but the fact it had still been spilled struck him as being very poignant and morbid all at once.

* * *

_if I told you what I was would you turn your back on me?_   
_and if I seem dangerous would you be scared?_   
_I get the feeling everything I touch isn't dark enough_   
_if this problem lies in me_

* * *

Hot water cascaded over him and Castiel bowed his head, letting it run off his face and drip down around his feet. He held a palm flat against the cheap plastic shower wall, inhaling deeply, his thoughts swimming and lost under the distracting flow. He focused on the steam, on the hiss of water that helped divert his mind from what was eating at him. Closing his eyes, Castiel tilted his neck either way, trying to ease the tension there.

His shoulder ached, his head pounded—the former thanks to a looter he was clumsy enough to miss with his bow earlier and thus ended up in a long physical scuffle with. He'd run out of pills again in the middle of a mission, the pain in his temples causing more than one slip up that day. He'd have a new scar in a month or so just below his ribs when the machete graze finally healed. He didn't even really notice the pain that came with it—just the throbbing in his skull and the ache on his heart that his fallen siblings left in wake of their death.

Castiel felt the phantom weight of the blade beneath his fingers as he used it to end his brother's life. He remembered Ezekiel staring up at him in gratitude, when all he could feel was shame and this sick, nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach that he still couldn't shake. He shuddered, the heat of the water doing little to stave off the tremors that clawed through him.

Hael had finally woken from her coma, but was nevertheless no better off than when she'd fallen into it. She was still in a great deal of pain—her vessel sluggish to heal itself and her grace too weak to piece itself back together properly. While her recovery was likelier than he'd first assumed—she was stronger than either of them had predicted, a fact Castiel was thankful for—it was taking too long for his peace of mind. He wanted her well again. He wanted her playing in the mess hall with Aubrey again. He wanted her to not be _afraid_ again.

He'd told her Camp Chitaqua was a _sanctuary_.

Maybe he wasn't a liar for it, but he was certainly a fool to think any of them could ever be safe. Especially so near to _him_.

Castiel barely registered the soft noise outside the shower before the glass door was abruptly sliding open. The motion and loud rolling sound startled him out of his thoughts and he jerked his head around to see Meg standing there, already removing her clothes. He let out a riled breath, his heart rate settling back down to where it belonged.

"Meg, what—"

"You've been in here forever and I didn't want to wait anymore," she said smoothly, noting with mild amusement how he needlessly averted his eyes at the sight of her bare flesh as she stepped in. He'd literally fallen from grace in just about every way an angel could, been with her countless times, and yet he still harbored a gentleman complex. "Got back and couldn't find you. Decided to wash away my sins and here you are, trying to do the same."

Castiel sighed, but when he looked at her again it was in abrupt, serious concern. "What happened to you?"

His voice had risen a little in alarm because there were dark, bloody trails all over her smaller form, slowly becoming watered down by the shower's hot mist as she avoided the spray. Meg was nearly stained head to toe in splatter, a great deal of it her own as he could see the open wounds and the terrible gash running across her cheek now that he really looked at her.

He reached out, hand gripping gently under her jaw as he drew her closer. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

"Meg, you're covered in blood—"

"It'll wash." Her dark eyes rose to meet his as she eased under the spray with him. The scarlet tendrils began to weep down her lithe body, gathering at their feet in affirmation to her words. Meg wet her lips, shivering a little as the hot spray splashed against her still tender injuries. "At least I know you're alive in here. Almost thought you were avoiding me."

Her skin brushed against his and Castiel's eyes seemed to grow darker as they flickered between hers. "I wasn't avoiding you," he said in a quiet voice. Irrational fears flittered through his thoughts along with the wakening need he felt like a flurry of errant snow.

_Is it snowing?_

_It's not snow. It's ash._

Pain shuddered through him at the reminder, his armor cracking. Castiel looked at her and saw how deeply her eyes searched his, felt the conflicting needs to both recoil and also cling to her all the more.

"Little hard to now, don't you think?"

He supposed she was speaking of having finally cornered him. And then he felt her fingers gently skim against his tattooed wrists, one and then the other, tracing the ink there that lay beneath his skin. The names of who he had lost.

His eyes as they retreated from her gave the impression of a reluctance to speak. And, when he did, it was slow and unsure—doubtful of himself and stripped raw with disuse and bereavement.

"Muriel," he murmured as her fingertip brushed the first name, surprising her. His head was bowed low, watching her touch as it found each Enochian rune, each angel who perished in the attack. "She was the angel of peace and harmony."

Of gardens and animals, and a teacher of goodness and unconditional love. She was a gentle angel, not a soldier at all, and she'd never hurt a soul in her life.

Meg's eyes drifted up to meet his, the question spoken there as her fingers slid a little higher.

"Azrael. The angel of passing and keeper of Heaven's souls."

He'd worked closely with Death, utterly neutral and compassionate. Azrael, his brother, was a beacon to faithful prayers which had no other angel assigned. He was proof that no human was ever intended to be alone.

"Theo," Castiel said of the next. "Protector of Creation. Patron of the wounded. " Theo had been a Rit Zien. A dutiful soldier and more dedicated healer. "Camael. Patron of joy and beauty. He was… he was the angel my Father sent to comfort Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. Camael wept for days after the Crucifixion."

Meg gently took up his other wrist, and Castiel softly sighed. He was shut off, but even through the haze of pain he was surely experiencing, he couldn't help but open his heart when he spoke of his siblings.

"Amesha. Angel of truth and righteousness, of the divine. Jophiel. The angel of light and patron of artists and illumination. He was the guardian of Paradise and stood at the Tree of Life with a flaming sword. Brighter even than Michael's."

Jophiel had always seemed… tormented at having to banish Adam and Eve. It left the keeper stung in ways an angel should not have been able to be stung. Once, Jophiel had also been a companion of Metatron, their friendship often regarded with favor and esteem. It was painful to think that only two years prior, the angel was just another of many the Scribe had betrayed through the Fall.

"Temeluchus. Punisher of evildoers. An angel of battle."

Another faceless soldier who became something more in the name of freedom.

Meg's fingers slid over the last inscription, and Castiel's voice wavered.

"Ezekiel," he uttered softly, throat catching over the name. Dear friend and loyal brother. One of Heaven's first and last Guardians. A protector from the moment of his creation up until his last, dying breath. "Angel of transformation and fidelity… patron of forgiveness."

Castiel clenched his jaw tightly, closing his eyes against the diverse memories and inborn knowledge of these brothers and sisters. They were so much more than even their titles claimed—he'd seen each of them throughout the months as they safeguarded those at the camp, lent their strength and earned their keep. Played with the children and laughed with the men and women, even when there was so little to find joy in these days.

Meg's touch drifted then to the warding tattoo above his hip, sliding over the similar marks that spelled something so very different. "Why did you never get an anti-possession tattoo?" she muttered softly in the space between them, linking her fingers through his.

Her touch banished his thoughts completely and brought back a flood of memories of she and himself. They hadn't been intimate since the attack on the camp—Castiel failing to have the heart for it and being so distant she could barely get him to look at her, much less fall with her into their usual dance. "I don't know," he replied. The thought lingered in the back of his mind, and he considered that he might have some notion, but he buried it before she could realize it was ever there.

"You need to get over this."

Castiel's voice was starkly anxious. Low and rough in the face of her offering. " _Don't_."

Meg felt the strong, broad planes of his chest as he pressed into her and she softened against him when his hands lifted to seize her face in urgency. Sparks raced along every inch of her skin as he kissed her under the spray. She reached up her fingers to bury them in the hair at his nape, drawing him further down. Castiel's hands skimmed over her soaking form, settling over her hips and crushing her to him as rivulets of water poured down their bodies. His fingertips left trails of fire and heat across her wet skin, desire igniting in them both.

Meg arched into him, coaxing him closer though not really needing to. One hand surged back up to entangle itself in her drenched hair, tugging, needing more. She felt how his heart thudded hard in his chest against hers, how his other hand tightened at the small of her back, drawing her forcibly close. He breathed out her name, both a plea and a demand, urgent for her to cleanse his mind of what had left him this pitiful, suffering shell—wanting to be _done_ with it all. His voice was fractured somewhere in the middle, but still so husky and intimate beside her ear.

Meg took him in with her eyes, seeing the pain in his face, considering how his wet hair looked almost black like that. She thought of his wings and closed her eyes, breathing in tremulously. "Take it, Castiel," she said in dulcet, smoky undertones. Her nails scratched along his scruffy jaw, spurring him on. Rousing the fire in him. Desperate for him as much as he was for her right now. She was fierce and meaningful as she took hold of the side of his face, refusing to let him withdraw and resist affection. "It's yours."

_I'm yours_ , went the unspoken. However he needed her, desired her, she was there for the taking. He could lose himself in her, take comfort in her, bury his frustration and despair in her. She was his.

A soft groan in the base of his throat sounded and Castiel took the invitation. He turned his face towards hers, not even thinking, just needing. Bare skin to bare skin, nothing between them at all but everything they never said. Meg felt his worry and anguish as his lips found and pressed hungrily against hers. She kissed him back with her entire body, deepening their connection and transitioning the heat of her touch wherever she could. Water sprayed over them like rainfall in the fraught space as he crowded her against the wall of the shower, their mouths and tongues tangling. Castiel was frenzied in a way that was achingly adrift, and Meg was left torn between thrill and lament over the roughness and despair of his touch. He was with her and yet he wasn't.

Their lips fell away from the other's only briefly before they met again in rising distress. They were both out of words, becoming impassioned and despairing and heavy and mindless. Castiel kissed her with grieved fury and a hunger borne out of desperation. He fell headlong into her spell with relief, feeling unworthy of her despite the absurdity, growling low into her mouth as guilt and shame at his own emotional weakness spiraled through him. He shut his eyes against the world so that all he could feel or think was her.

Meg's shallow, quickening breaths and quiet encouragements drove him mad, her voice a siren call he could deny himself no longer. Castiel crumbled, abandoning his resistance completely. With sudden, carnal authority, he gripped her thighs and lifted her up, torso molded to hers, her back sliding against the plastic shell. Satisfaction at his brazen ferocity after so long a drought stoked a heady fire, and Meg tightened her fingers in his hair with a wanton sound. Milky legs fastened around his waist, muscles sliding over curves. Castiel's thumb grazed the hinge of her jaw as he drowned her in another kiss, sloppy and unchecked, their mutual gasps swallowed by each other in burning passion.

Their kiss broke and Meg's head fell back against the shower wall, lips parting in another soundless cry as her hands fell to his drenched shoulders for support. Castiel buried his face down in the crook of her neck with a throaty sound, relief and need breaking over him as they met and moved against each other like waves crashing in the ocean. The steam around them made every inhale feel thick and substantial, water still streaming over them in a way that should have been cleansing but only brought further desolation to them both.

Meg _felt_ how hungry and inconsolable he was through the unyielding way his hands held her, the powerful, fervent way he worshipped her and succumbed to every morsel of solace her presence could offer him. Increasingly feverish sounds splashed together beneath the spray from their mouths, drowning out what awaited them beyond this intimate space, this shell of solitude that for once kept them aligned rather than at odds.

Both were unaware of what the future held and would later count themselves fools for different reasons. But, in that moment, all they knew was the love and infatuation they couldn't resist in each other. In spite of what would eventually destroy them, they let passion sweep them away and gave shelter to the very thing that had damned them both in the first place, stacking their transgressions ever higher in willful ignorance.

Castiel's mind became a blessed blackout, the agonizing thoughts from before now only a distant buzz in the back of his head as he lost himself in her completely.

* * *

_I can see the pain in you_   
_I can see the love in you_   
_but fighting all the demons will take time_   
_and this is the last time_   
_that I'm ever gonna give in tonight_   
_are there angels or devils crawling here?_

* * *

"Aren't you going to sleep? We just got back two hours ago."

Another meeting concluded, Sam was surprised to see his brother shrugging on his coat—heading towards the gate instead of his cabin. Nightfall was approaching in a few hours, which was a dangerous time to be outside the camp's walls. Not to mention that they had a ton of shit to take care of in the morning. Sam had been lobbying for months to locate some of the nearby demon nests for interrogation and mass exorcism. Something that could yield information and spare the host… like things had been before. He remembered the days of Yeager and Irv, even Risa who was incredibly green to such methods… Sam remembered in the beginning when they cured what hosts had been lost through possession. Those days were long past, and Sam wanted them back.

"Not tired," came Dean's automatic response, jarring him out of his thoughts.

Sam sighed, wordlessly admitting defeat in favor of a lecture. But then he caught sight of that primeval shape, feeling like a stone had landed somewhere in his gut. "Why do you have that?" he quietly asked, frowning faintly in worry and suspicion.

Dean barely reacted to the anxious tone, offering Sam a careless shrug. "Hockey stick that can kill anything? Handy to have around." He was surprised when Sam suddenly reached out, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. How many times have we been around this block?"

Dean stared hard at his brother, not understanding.

Sam shook his head, looking vexed. "Magic that powerful comes at a _price_ , Dean. And… right now, we don't know what that price _is_."

It was a predictable reaction and hardly worthy of much attention. He was accustomed to his little brother's hang ups and, really, who the hell was Sam to talk? "Really, Sam? I'm fine."

Spoken as though he found the entire conversation inconvenient.

Sam rubbed at the lower half of his face briefly in a gesture that came off as supremely harrowed. "Sure." His hand slapped down. "Of course you are." Dean was bristling now, and Sam rushed to pacify him. "Look, I'm not saying we bury the thing. I'm just saying we save it for when we really need it. Come on, man," he tried to reason. His brother seemed almost reluctant, maybe even reachable, and Sam doubled his appeal. "You don't have to have it with you all the time, right?"

Dean chuckled a bit, although his smile faded into a more unfriendly expression and his voice hardened a little. "Is this supposed to be some kind of intervention? Because I told you, I'm fine. If I wasn't, you'd know. Hell, if anything… it's made me better. _Stronger_."

Sam's eyebrows moved in together as his eyes narrowed. This was bordering on absurd. "Okay, well… not an intervention. I'm _asking_ you. We're partners in this, Dean. We watch each other's backs—at least, we're supposed to." He wet his lips, trying to think of a way to get Dean back to the land of the sane, but then he was already being spoken over.

"You know we can't afford to screw this up. Anything to put a run in that bitch's stockings, right?"

"No, I know that. And I'm glad the Blade gives you strength, or whatever. But Dean, I gotta say… I'm starting to think the Blade is doing something else, too." He allowed that statement to hang in the air before driving his point home emphatically. "Something _really_ fucking… twisted." He'd _seen_ his brother use the weapon in the field. The sight was… unsettling to witness. Because Sam had been watching Dean fight his entire life, and in all that time he'd _never_ seen Dean fight like he did when he had that Blade in his hand. His brother wasn't a hunter anymore. He was the incarnation of violence. Worst of all… he seemed to enjoy it.

Dean's forehead wrinkled up in suspicion. "Like what?"

Fumbling a little, Sam tried to voice the feelings of dread he harbored into clear words. "Like… I don't know… something _to you_."

Dean barked out a humorless laugh, already moving past him. "Alright, now it's an intervention. Don't embarrass yourself, Sammy."

Sam's expression became indignant at the terse retort and he hurried after his brother, getting angry now. "Would you just listen? We have to talk about—"

Dean rounded on him. "Here's the deal, Sam. I'm not apologizing for whatever shit you're about to lay on me. I'm _telling_ you how it's gonna be."

Sam grimaced in vast frustration, closing his eye briefly against the obstinate wall staring back at him. "Dean… that Blade—"

"That _Blade_ is the only thing that can kill Abaddon. And I am the only one who can _use it_." Green eyes drilled defiantly into the withering fortitude opposing him, almost daring his brother to argue. "So, from here on out, I'm calling the shots." Sam turned away and Dean chased the motion so that he was looking right at him. His hand fell almost reverently on the hilt of the First Blade. "Until I jam this Blade through that bitch's heart… we are not a team. This is a dictatorship."

Sam stared back at him hollowly. "Are you fucking joking?" he uttered flatly.

Dean ignored the abrasive tone, driving his point home with churlish resolve. "You don't have to like it, but that's how it's gonna be."

"Goddamn it, Dean, we've _all_ lost people!" Sam shouted, frustrated beyond compare as his temper flared to the surface out of desperation. Incensed, he threw a hand out at his brother for harsh emphasis. "Risa's dead, and you're hurting, I get it—believe me! So is _Zeke_ , so is Yeager, and Irv, and Matthew, and a dozen other people we loved. But you don't see Cas going off the rails, you don't see me looking for blood to spill, you don't see any of us going out picking fights just for an excuse to kill! This isn't about vengeance, Dean—this is about that fucking old bone!"

Dean said nothing, only turned abruptly on his heel to continue on in the direction he'd been headed.

Sam watched him go with increasing unease, frustration, and… _resentment_ boiling hot in his veins. He threw a hand up in protest against Dean's silence. "What the hell happened, man?" he called after him, almost wearily. When they'd returned from Missouri, he'd been so sure he and his brother were on the same page. That they would work through whatever came at them. "I thought… I thought we were good?"

Dean gave no response. Within moments, Sam lost him in the darkness of the late hour.

* * *

_take a good look at me now_   
_do you still recognize me_   
_am I so different inside_   
_this world is trying to change me_

* * *

From the bathroom, Meg could still hear the faint sounds of him dressing, putting away their wet towels, needing to leave something orderly, which she supposed was ironic given the emotional disorder they both were trying to get a handle on. Meg rang out her hair in the kitchenette sink, tossing it over her shoulder as she stared out into the day through the grimy window panes. There was little activity beyond their brief shelter, but the sight was still intimidating in a way.

Pulling on her boots, Meg deigned to give Castiel his space. Jeans and tank top already hugging her damp body, she crossed over to pull her jacket from the back of the chair, but something must have snagged. At her impatient tug, the chair came toppling over, crashing with a dull thud against the wood floor and sending both of their jackets sprawling at her feet.

Meg muttered a curse, stooping to pick them up when the orange bottle with the white cap caught her eye. Her fingers closed around it, recognizing it as his, but something made her hesitate before she could stuff it back into his pocket. Meg felt a sinking sensation and the awareness that something was amiss.

An errant, cold fury simmered at the edges of her disposition at what she saw upon her closer look.

"Try not to make a mess," came Castiel's worn voice.

Meg turned to see him stepping out of the bathroom, toweling his hair halfheartedly, donned in his jeans and a tee, skin still glistening. She couldn't even appreciate the sight of him looking like that.

Getting to her feet, she held up the offending find. "What the hell are these?"

At the demand in her voice, at the sight of that bottle grasped tight in her hand, Castiel instinctively tensed, his haggard expression falling flat. He hesitated, a tinge of nervousness pitting itself in him. "Pills. For my headaches." His voice rang hollow even to his own ears.

Meg's expression went cold with wrathful anger and she suddenly reared back and threw the bottle at him, hard, and he scrambled to catch it before it hit him. "Those aren't pain pills, Cas, they're fucking amphetamines!" The accusation hung heavy on the air, and she didn't give him any time to respond. "Who did you get these from?"

Castiel's gaze fell downcast. "It doesn't matter."

Inexplicable anger surged through her and Meg looked at him in sheer disbelief. "The hell it doesn't!"

He bristled defensively, eyes darting back to hers. "I said it doesn't, so it _doesn't_."

Indignance flared in Meg's veins. "Watch your fucking tone with me." Her outraged stare was icy cold. "You think I couldn't carve answers out of you if I wanted them bad enough?"

"I'm sure you could," Castiel all but snarled, his flagging voice gaining some volume. His temper flared and he hadn't been able to control it—wasn't sure he even cared to, and so the derisive remark slipped out.

Meg advanced on him and spoke with a hard, threatening tone. "Don't get pissy with _me!_ I'm going to throw you through something big and heavy if you don't—"

Castiel reacted more harshly than he meant to and his snapping shout startled them both. "I can't afford mistakes, Meg!" The sharp, ringing tone stopped her short and he was sickeningly glad to have shut her up. Meg registered bristling surprise, and he ignored it. "I can't afford to be less than one hundred percent. I need these because they keep me fast, _alert_ , and—"

"You're so full of shit." Meg shook her head, looking disgusted with him. "You don't even realize it. This is why you haven't had any appetite, why you can never sleep, the tremors you try to hide from everybody—all of it! Are you that fucking stupid?"

"I can't sleep because my family is dying all around me and I can't stop it!" he yelled in defiance. "I don't eat because I feel fucking sick because of it! This body is _weak_ because it's _human!"_

"It's also a sign of drug addiction, you stupid shit!" Meg shouted, every stored up morsel of anger blasting out of her like a hurricane. She was furious, frustration boiling over, because suddenly she was seeing an alternate reality where she was not there and she was horrified by what she saw. Maybe once that sight would have appealed to her, but now the image just left her feeling gutted. How could he not see what was happening? How could he not care? This was not the Castiel she knew—what the _fuck_ was happening? "Is that how you want to go out? Is it, really? Some piss poor OD in the middle of fucking nowhere?"

His hysterical laugh was haggard and devoid of any humor and it sent a chill through her. It scared the _shit_ out of her. "No one cares that I'm broken. Why the hell should I?" he asked heavily.

" _I care_ , dumbass." How dare he think otherwise. How dare he fill himself with poison when he already had her to drag him down. How dare he sound so _dead_ inside!

" _Why?_ You're a _demon!_ Why the hell _should_ you care that I'm doing this?"

That really pissed her off—mostly because she had no good answer for it. "Yeah, Cas, I know what the fuck I am. Do you even realize how _pathetic_ it is, given that? For a fallen angel to have a demon for a _sponsor_? You know what… forget it. Pick yourself up this time," she retorted, turning on her heel and heading for the door. She had to get away from him before she really lost her temper.

Before Meg knew what was happening, he'd moved faster than she would have ever given him credit and was beside her again, fingers closing around her wrist and yanking her back. "I need you, Meg."

Meg whirled on her heel to look at him in accusation. "What the hell did you say?"

Castiel fell back, averting his eyes and looking more contrite than he would have ever admitted just then. More desperate and more frustrated as the seconds ticked by. He wore a strained expression, a desperate animosity lingering beneath the surface that was pungent. Everything about him raged with fresh despair, but at the same time silently appealed to her in a manner that beckoned her to drop everything and run to him. His voice had been crushed and afraid and accusing and full of a begging anxiety she couldn't stand.

" _Answer me_ , Castiel."

"I said I need you!" he hissed out finally, both furious and cornered. He'd said it before and he couldn't help but think she derived some sick pleasure out of hearing him say it again. Castiel faltered, panicking internally even as outwardly he remained callous and cutting. "I am _losing_ my _mind_. Everything is different and nothing makes _sense_ and I can't _bear_ it. I can't see like I used to and I can't _feel_ like before—"

Meg closed in on him, punching her words at him in her own anger. "You mean feeling nothing at all? Is that what you want, Cas? To feel _nothing_? Is that why the pills and the drinking yourself stupid? Gonna get stoned off your ass next with Cheech and Chong in the pot den?" She was at her limits of patience, and all she knew was that he had better pull himself together before she turned tail. He might have been special to her, but he wasn't special for being miserable. They were all climbing the walls, his excuse was no different. He wasn't the only one who _needed_ somebody, whose every thread of sanity hinged upon the person keeping them afloat. She couldn't keep him together when it was all it took to keep _herself_ from falling apart now. He was her moral compass and he was broken. Her words were accusatory, a fresh level of desperate all their own. "I'm all for a bad boy, but I won't waste my time on a fucking tragedy." She needed this too—damn it, she needed _him!_ How did he not see it? How had he let this happen?!

Castiel stared at her, heart on his sleeve. "We _are_ a tragedy. You died, remember?"

The reminder was said as an accusation and Meg rolled her eyes. "And you're the epitome of heroic. I'm swooning." Her words were derisive and said with every intention of getting under his skin.

Castiel's dry, hollow laugh would haunt her for months to come. "I don't care what you _think_ , Mara, I care that you're alive!" The use of the name startled her, though she didn't think he even realized what he'd said. More importantly, his words roused a living beast inside of her that silently snarled at his nerve.

" _Don't_ call me that."

Castiel saw the way Meg flattened her mouth into a bitter, seething expression, but it was the disappointment on her face that truly, finally defeated him. He spread his hands. "Why the hell not bang a few gongs before the lights go out? I'm hapless, I'm hopeless—I'm all but _useless_ , Meg! I can't believe you, of all people—"

"Just shut up. And _sober_ up, you fucking child."

A muscle tightened in his jaw, his passion tempering into a low burn but losing none of its intensity. "I know what I'm doing."

Meg laughed, sharp and derisive. "Didn't our favorite moosekateer say that when he was chugging demon blood? Sound familiar?"

Castiel bristled, his temper surging to the forefront once more so that his next words were harsh and angry again. " _I am not Sam_."

His voice was a threatening growl, warning her away from the topic. Meg stared at him for a long time, heedless, her dark eyes renting an emotional hole through him. "Maybe you think I'm Ruby."

Castiel was taken aback by that, shocked into silence and not sure himself the reasons why. He contemplated her with an unrelenting, fierce nature… but was that hesitation and the beginnings of fear hiding in his eyes?

Meg was already continuing on despite his silence. "I go on runs for Kevin, and I got you breathing down my neck, looking into my comings and goings. You think I wouldn't notice? What the hell gives?"

Castiel dodged the questioning gaze, stalling, bridling out of alarm at her insight. "…You were late."

"I ran into Croats."

His eyes raised to look into hers unreadably. "That area has been Croat free for months."

"You think they don't come back?" When she received no answer, Meg closed in on him, pointedly demanding in so many words that he speak his mind. "A Croat can't go for a fucking _walk_ to old stomping grounds?"

Her questions only made his expression all the more pained. He was almost reluctant to look at her—to see her at all. He'd never felt that way before and it worried him, confused him, agonized him. But he was afraid that if he did look at her he'd be afraid of what he saw there. "What that demon said about you…"

She knew he meant the demon they'd interrogated and killed while on the road, the knowledge only making her indignance rise as she lost her temper again. "Demons _lie_ , Castiel!"

His eyes conveyed that that was precisely what he was dreading. He knew how she felt about him, was certain of it—even if that certainty continued to waver over time. But he was family to the Winchesters, to Bobby, and he had once betrayed them in ways unspeakable. "You also said that demons often tell the truth. Which demon are you, Meg?"

His question was not what she expected. It hit her like a ton of bricks, shattered parts of her she kept locked away, and almost made the room hard to breathe in. Gathering her defenses, Meg shook her head, affecting an incredulous repugnance and fitting it to her face. "Goddamn, what's with this demons being second class citizens shit starting up again?"

"They _are_."

"Excuse me?"

" _They. Are_." Castiel stared hard at her, needing her to explain herself because she deliberately wasn't. _Why_ was she not? His trust was fracturing, and he almost felt like he shouldn't be around her right now and it was the strangest, most disturbing feeling he'd ever possessed. He wanted to rid himself of it completely and it was maddening that she didn't understand, that she refused to see it. "You're not like them, Meg. Not to _me_. But what am I supposed to think?"

There was a note of helplessness there that Meg forced herself to ignore. "You think I don't know what you're doing?" she snarled, noting his change of topic from the real problem at hand. She flattened her mouth out into an embittered expression and the disappointment on her face defeated him. Disappointment at what she saw, disappointment at his lack of faith in her. Disappointment that everything was falling apart and that she might lose the one good thing she had left. "You wanna follow me around looking for trouble where there is none, be my guest. But listen here… you'd better break this habit, or I'm gone. I have ten fucking years with you— _ten_. That's it. If you turn that into anything less because of that goddamn bottle, I swear, Castiel… I'll turn this camp into a graveyard. I'm not losing you for _this_. You're better than those pills. Start fucking acting like it."

Meg turned from him in a flurry of anger, snatching her jacket off the floor and marching for the door. She swung it behind her in a harsh slam that warned him not to follow.

The space she'd occupied felt suddenly empty and void. Now that she was gone, Castiel fought off a nosedive of emotion, certain the walls surrounding him would close in and choke him. He stared after her for a long time in anger before sighing heavily and sinking back into the couch, putting his head in his hands as a feeling of self-loathing sank deeply into his stomach.

He sat there for awhile, hands eventually falling into his lap as he regarded the bottle he still held there. Everything he'd said and done crushed down on him and he realized he probably didn't know what he was doing at all. Utterly bereft on every level, Castiel let his shoulders sag down further than they already had.

The verse, " _do not let the sun go down upon your anger_ ," circled through his mind long until the following morning and left him feeling guilty.

Castiel. Presider over wanderers. Patron of Thursdays and fallen kings. Angel of solitude and tears.

* * *

_here by my side, an angel_   
_here by my side, the devil_   
_never turn your back on me again_   
_here by my side, you are destruction_   
_careful, be careful_   
_this is where the world drops off_

* * *

" _Take your pills, Clarence."_

_Her patient sat, staring down at the_ Sorry! _board with tired eyes. "They don't affect me."_

_His voice carried its usual low gravel, but it was softer. Subdued, even. Meg frowned, reaching up to wiggle the tiny paper cup in front of his nose. "Take them anyways, or they'll put you in solitary again. You don't want that, do you?"_

_Castiel shook his head. "No," he answered quietly._

_Things were better with Meg. When he was alone, it was bad. Very bad. He didn't want to be alone in that tiny room again. He didn't want to be alone at all._

_He obeyed her wish, swallowing the pills that had as much sway over him as a bee sting had on an elephant. He handed the cup back to her, and Meg smiled ruefully. "Don't you wanna crush it? Might make you feel better."_

_Castiel shook his head again, saying nothing more. He reached out, moving some pieces around on the board. He felt Meg's fingers ruffling gently at his hair, dark eyes studying his profile._

" _Lucy still poking around in there?"_

_The angel hesitated, his shoulders tensing. His gaze drifted up from the table to the empty chair across from them, seeing something she could not. Faintly, he nodded._

_Meg frowned. "What's he saying?"_

" _Nothing that isn't true."_

_Maybe he should just… go to sleep. That would be better. Better for everyone. No more pills, no more voice taunting him from beyond the cage. Meg would not have to deal with him as he was, he would have no more episodes that put everyone in the entire ward at risk, and he… he wouldn't have to feel this way anymore. He could stop it._

_Castiel would lose himself to a deep sleep, and everything would be better._

* * *

_a part of me is dead, need you to live again_   
_can you replace this, I'm hollow and faceless_   
_shadows growing in my mind_   
_ones I just can't leave behind_   
_I'm not strong enough to pay this ransom_

* * *

The cello stood in the corner, the high polished sheen on the rich wood dulled by a layer of dust from disuse. He'd gone back to his home some short time after the angels fell to find it. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew that. But memories of practicing with his mom every day after school compelled him. His aunt now owned their house, after his mother had been missing for so long.

_Mom._

_Where are you?_

Eyes flickering behind his lids, the question rose not for the first time in his mind.

It was sleep without dreams, which perhaps was better for how harrowing they could be. Without dreams, but with a proclivity for the brain to manifest fears, burdens, and memories best locked away in a vault and launched into one of the corners of the universe. Maybe… maybe he would ask Castiel the best black hole to fire it into, should he ever get the chance.

In such a vulnerable state, such nothingness was balm. Good nor bad.

No pain of seeing something unattainable, nor the bloody sights he would view while awake. Pure, unfettered rest. Like a rock. And a rock is what his body felt like as the old windup egg timer blared suddenly beside him, causing Kevin to jerk awake in a manner that was anything but peaceful.

The world around him was a gossamer blur that faded slowly into clarity. His eyes were all but crushed over with sleep, all function sluggish from the neck down. With some awareness, he realized he had passed out at his desk. The single illumination of his dark cabin was the sad little pillar candle flickering weakly beside him. The tablet's notes sat idly in front of him, somehow reaching out through the fog still gripping him.

Kevin sighed, running a hand over his scruffy face before reaching over and switching off the alarm. Errantly, his mind drifted and he considered a thought that had been plaguing him for some time. So long he'd entertained the idea of running away, of shedding his duty as prophet—a duty he had never asked for in the first place. Honestly, who would _ever_ ask for this?

_Ivy League university education... here I don't come._

Kevin shook the thought, just as he did every other time. People needed him.

_You're family. After all the crap we've been through, after all the good that you've done… man, if you don't think that we would die for you…_

Bolstered by conviction, Kevin set his shoulders, rising to his feet and taking up his weapon as a sense of purpose and belonging filled him. No. He wasn't going anywhere. Not in a million years.

The translation of the tablet would wait.

He had rounds to tend to.

* * *

_and I will die alone and be left there_   
_I guess I'll just go home, oh God knows where_   
_because death is just so full and mine so small_   
_I'm scared of what's behind and what's before_

* * *

Everyone avoided the pissy demon tromping through the camp with a chip on her shoulder, affording her a wide berth. Her boots dug spitefully into the mud, the weapons on her back sporting a gory mixture of Croat blood and looter entrails. They were a dime a dozen and she may have purposely gone out looking for a fight. Her dark curls were a wild, tangled ribbon that whipped across her eyes from her pace and the vindictive wind that slapped against her. There was a storm about a mile out, and Meg had half a mind to go and lose herself in it. It would be a bad one, she could tell, and—frankly—she could do with some bad right now.

Mired in vile introspection, she didn't notice the body until she was crashing into it. " _Watch it_ ," Meg snapped, eyes slicking to black as she turned them to glare on the intrusion.

Charlie instinctively shrank back, holding up her hands. "Chill pill, Megara. You walked into _me_."

The demon scowled but hesitated, and her eyes begrudgingly returned to their human guise. "Where's Castiel?"

She hadn't seen him in her thundery walkthrough, had even stopped by Hael's cabin to see if he'd gone there. Her primary motivation for hunting him down was based solely on having more opportunity to tear him a new one, but a small part of her was almost starting to worry. It was well after nightfall, which was a poor fucking time to be outside camp walls. That, plus with the storm coming… if that idiot got himself hurt because he was trying to prove a point…

Charlie lifted a shoulder, appearing to be in a hurry. "Saw him earlier—looked about as bloody and bitchy as you do."

So. Cas had gone looking for a fight, too. And they said opposites attract.

"Lemme guess." The girl raised an eyebrow. "Trouble in fallen paradise?"

Meg's eyes went to her sharply, indignant. "Oh, is that what you think?"

"You're pissed at him. An idiot could tell."

Meg's teeth bared in a fierce smile. "How do you know it wasn't me who did something?"

Charlie clearly wasn't buying it. "Please. You think because I don't play for the boys' team that I don't know the look of one whose snuggle bear isn't sharing her honey?"

Meg frowned at that, relenting the issue. "Get him a message for me?"

"Can't. Headed out on another medical run to Clearwater. One of the kids is sick." Guilt played at the edges of her mind for having to ditch Kevin, but thankfully he'd understood. He'd even offered to go with her. The look on his face though when she'd told him how Dean probably wouldn't approve had sent him into a sour nosedive. Charlie didn't blame him. Dean might have been acting a dick, but the prophet's value was the most esteemed advantage they had at the camp. Charlie was all for defying Dean when the risk was small—busting Kevin out for small supply runs when the extra hand was appreciated. But a run to Clearwater in the middle of the night was too dicey. Donovan and Joseph would accompany her.

Meg's petulant stare combed the darkness around them, mulling over her thoughts. "Where is he now?" she uttered at last, thinking that maybe her company had a better idea than she did.

Charlie shrugged. "He sleeps, doesn't he?"

_Depends how much shit he's clogged his system with that day_ , Meg thought derisively.

"Well, the sun's down and everyone's going to bed except the watchmen. I'm sure there's an Alan Moore joke in there somewhere. Check his cabin."

Meg narrowed her eyes at Charlie's somewhat condescending tone, electing to ignore it. "Run along then, Pebbles," she muttered, altering her destination on its course. She didn't glance back to see if the redhead had anything else to offer. Instead, she moved for their cabin, easing up the porch steps with careful footing to avoid any creaks.

It was dark inside, no light whether from the lanterns or what few candles they kept on hand. As she stepped in, Meg thought the empty domicile seemed cold and she shook the feeling. She was about to forget it and leave, but Charlie's words still hung at her ears in reminder and Meg sighed. Crossing over the distance of the room, she peered into their bedroom and was surprised by the sight.

Castiel was asleep.

Meg's shoulders sagged a little, some of her anger falling away at what she saw. She tried not to let her relief show, despite that the notion was foolish as no one could see her anyways. One of Castiel's hands was curled over the empty side of the bed, his brow drawn in a frown as he slept. For being so different, they really were so similar. Hardly as opposite as they liked to pretend. Castiel had refused to go after her, too—not out of stubbornness, she didn't think. But to allow her space. Or perhaps because he thought he deserved that empty spot beside him.

With Castiel, it was hard to tell.

Hell, maybe he was still pissed too. She knew she was. Although they were physically close to each other, Meg felt a world apart from him.

The urge to go to him was so strong. She itched to forego her own fury and surrender to that very urge. To slip in beside him, remind the ass that she was so pissed she couldn't see straight, but that he was stuck with her all the same, just like she'd promised. It was ridiculous, pathetic of her, and she knew it. The instinct to comfort him should have reviled her, but all it did was leave her torn asunder.

At least he was sleeping. She had to wonder if maybe he was trying to get his shit together. That she cared at all was unnerving. He'd been right, of course—a demon lecturing on the evils of drug addiction wasn't just borderline absurd, it _was_ absurd. Earlier, she'd wondered how he'd let this happen to himself. The only explanation she could think was… because of her.

Meg sank a little against the hard jamb, fighting against the call of his warm presence that could be felt even across the room. As much as she wanted to just erase the board so that things could be like they were, something told her a storm was coming and that this was just the beginning.

She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, frowning to herself. She quelled that urge she felt, needing to distance herself. Needing the reminder that he didn't need her and she didn't need him, when it came down to it. Every time she forgot it, one or both of them ended up hurt. One or both of them was always disappointing the other, and the physical high she got from him was distracting and it changed nothing. Castiel wasn't the only one with an addiction.

They were good and evil. Angel and demon. Who were they trying to fool?

With so much distance between them, Meg felt like she was witnessing the end of something. The death of something not only between them, but in herself. Maybe it had to be over.

Mystified at the realization and dreading it with a surprising amount of conviction, Meg hesitated. She should end it, here and now. Before she begged him to let her back in. Before she excused everything he had done. Before her own detestable weakness could take over.

Before she changed her mind.

With barely a rustle of clothing, Meg disappeared from threshold of their room, from the cabin entirely. Being close to him was her downfall. It always had been.

She'd seen the pill bottle on the dresser, the sight of it motivating her retreat, stoking her anger back into place. She despised him in that moment—not only for the pills, or his lack of faith in her, but for ever needing her in the first place. For ever making _her_ need _him_.

Tomorrow was a new day. Something had to go right, because today had been utter shit. Hopefully, the dawn would bring something better to them all.

* * *

_as frail as we are to the feelings we show_   
_as desperate as we are to time so we won't die alone_   
_and over the shoulder goodbye_   
_the look back that's frozen in time_   
_we swore for the better_   
_we swore for the worst but we failed_   
_can we find it in our hearts to tear it apart_   
_and stand under while it's falling down_

* * *

Gadreel killed Kevin today.

No one saw it coming. No one except for Sam.

He remembered a feeling of panic jolting through him like an actual electrical surge and he sat up in bed with a start. Eyes wide, breath gasping, he already knew it was too late. Didn't know why or how, only that Gadreel was at the camp and that someone was about to die.

Sam flung back the sheets, grabbing the holy blade he kept by his nightstand, and burst out of his cabin, swallowing ground before his feet even left the porch. His heart jackhammered in his chest, stomach sick. Sam gained speed until he was at a dead run, rain spattering against his face as he tore through the camp, shirtless and barefoot. His lungs felt like they were going to tear apart with the effort and the fear. He had no idea where he was running to, but he followed the almost magnetic pull inside his chest, the ringing in his ears. Lights began turning on, the rest of the camp rousing seemingly on cue. Had he even heard a scream? There must have been a scream.

_Too late, too late_ , said a voice in his head. But he had to try.

Run.

Faster.

_Keep going._

Feet pounded against the earth. Heart beating madly, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his starved muscles, Sam's frantic chase led him straight to the main gate, where he saw two bodies lying motionless. A massive gap was torn into the nearby fence and Sam's heart dropped.

Fuck, he _was_ too late.

Sam looked on the scene with abject shock, his gaze wide. Horrified devastation tightened his features as he recognized the body closest to him, feeling a gutwrenching, _consuming_ sense of loss at the sight of the prophet lying there with his eyes burned out.

No… no. Not Kevin. Not _Kevin_. Not like _this!_

Sam let out a wretched sound that clawed its way up his throat, dropping to his knees and burying his face in his hands before dragging them through his hair. Kevin, _their_ Kevin—smote like a demon, eyes ruined, death _excruciating_.

Sam felt a kneejerk phantom ache in his own ruined eye, uncovered in his haste to reach them. He turned inevitably then to the other body, watching it begin to stir, and his breath caught sharp in his throat.

" _Meg?_ "

* * *

ONE HOUR EARLIER

"You seem bitchier than usual," Kevin offered, the silence of twilight getting to him.

With Charlie headed off on a two-day mission that night, and with Garth locked in some dingy cellar somewhere, there weren't a lot of other options. At least it afforded them a chance to talk. Or, it would have… if Meg was actually talking. He had to resort to weak insults to get her attention.

He could guess the reason for her moody reticence.

"How the fuck would you know?" Meg retorted, but the comment lacked any real venom, despite the edge to it.

Kevin merely raised an eyebrow, not the least bit intimidated.

Meg set her jaw, relenting the issue with a dismissive glance away. The kid had grown a backbone. She could appreciate that.

There was a time when the little demon scared the piss out of him. She still did, occasionally. Kevin often pondered if it was because of her or himself that she no longer did. "Talk to me about the runs," he said, leaning against the wall at his back, his weapon held loosely in his grip. The rain hissed around them, the usual nightly sounds faded to the background.

Meg sighed, tossing her weapon against the wall carelessly, taking a lean beside him. They exchanged a briefly furtive look until she was shaking her head. "Sorry, kid."

Briefly, she cursed her decision to stay and lend Kevin a hand when he'd been stuck on patrol duty alone.

Every way she turned, the walls were closing in on her. Everything she tried to do to escape the prison she was building herself seemed only to seal her fate further. Some horrible crescendo was on its way and she felt it but ran from it in whatever way she could, tried even harder to finish this terrible thing she had started. It was never supposed to be this _hard_. This was her element, this was who she was… if she could just finish it, if she could just have it end…

Kevin's lips pressed into a thin line, stress evident in the tense cut of his shoulders as he took that in. He was about to say something else until Meg went still as a statue and just as cold. Her eyes stared out unseeing, and Kevin couldn't fathom what could have set her so immediately on edge. Usually Croats and looters got a snarky retort out of her, not a Terminator pose.

"What is it?"

Those eyes narrowed against the dark distrustfully. Meg was already straightening up to her full height, firearm forgotten in favor of the angel blade she now gripped in her hand. "Stick close to me, shortstop," she ordered.

"Angel?" Kevin ventured, a tremor creeping along his spine. He raised his weapon, knowing it would do little good against one, but it was better than nothing.

"Smell ozone," Meg confirmed in a tight voice.

Without warning, a bright and terrible light tore through the thick fencing beside them, throwing both of them back under the force. Their hands flew up to shield their eyes against the assault, barely registering the form that was clawing its way through the thick iron bands as though they were rubber.

Neither recognized the face of the angel as it appeared through the wall with a final, violent shove.

"Kevin, stay back," growled Meg, planting her feet.

"Demon, I have no quarrel with you," it said. The male vessel it wore was gentle in speech, but the demeanor it held itself with bore a clear threat.

"Yeah?" Meg flipped the blade in her hand, the point now aimed downwards. "Then you picked the wrong place to pull a Hulk."

She was a flurry of motion, and the angel barely had time to assume a defense before Meg dragged it into a fight.

Over the past several months she'd been working to temper her anger and her blinding reflex to stab first and ask questions later, but she knew a hitman when she saw one. She didn't know who this angel was here for, but he wasn't getting any further into the camp than he already had. Not if she had any say in the matter.

"Meg!"

She heard Kevin at her back as the angel had little other choice but to meet her in combat. She ducked a series of brutal swings, hearing the wind whistle past her and rustle her hair. It was strong. _Freakishly_ strong. She'd expected it to retain some injury from the Fall, but something had powered it up. Light exploded from the wound Meg tore into its shoulder and it gave a stifled shout, catching her next attack and nearly crushing her wrist in the process. It's grace burned hot against her, scorching her.

What the hell kind of angel was this?

Meg grimaced and cried out against the assault, twisting away and realizing she would need to rely on speed and not strength for this one. She was able to land two more hard hits before it had her by the throat. His other hand quickly turned the fracture of her bone into a full break and her blade went skittering away. Pain bloomed across her cheek as it struck her physically and simultaneously tore into her with psychic spears of grace. Meg struggled in spite of it, feeling something shatter in her leg when the heel of his boot bore down against the back of her knee, forcing her to her knees.

A flood of grace poured over her and she barely registered how abruptly it stopped when her attacker suddenly released her. Smoke twisting and contorting at the agony left behind by the invasion of light, she had only a second to take in the picture of Kevin cracking the angel upside the head hard with the stock of his weapon before darkness enveloped her.

It stumbled aside, stunned to see the boy charging after it with the demon's holy blade now in his hands.

With the element of surprise on his side, Kevin was able to drive the angel back as he fought against it. He may have been confined within the camp's walls, but with reclusion came hours spent in training. Teachers like Meg, Sam, Castiel, Ezekiel… he'd been sparring with angels since the Fall, learning their patterns, their fighting style.

He was more than a kid with his head buried in a book. He knew how to handle a gun now. And he _damn_ well knew how to use a blade. This was his home, his family.

As long as he was alive, no rogue angel was gonna touch a hair on the heads of the people he loved.

Kevin's angry shout was the only warning Gadreel had before the boy was unleashing a series of quick attacks he barely had time to defend against. The demon had wounded him, quite badly too. An arrow of doubt and regret lanced through him because this boy, this prophet, had heart. He wore devotion like a badge of honor on his sleeve. He was truly, _sincerely_ , fighting to save those he deeply cherished.

Gadreel had no intention of harming those close to the boy.

Although, through his next act, he would destroy those Kevin loved in the worst way possible.

Gadreel knocked the blade aside a final time, seizing the boy around the collar of his shirt in a stranglehold. The prophet put up an impressive struggle, and even through his next words, Gadreel could not quell the admiration in his voice.

"I am sorry, Kevin Tran."

The murmur pierced through the boy, briefly stilling him in a profound way, as though he understood. Expression twisting in remorse, Gadreel wasted no more time and reached out to lay a hand over the prophet's head.

Kevin immediately felt a rushing heat unlike anything he'd ever known, searing him from the inside out in ways both terrible and profanely righteous.

Under the intensity of it, he screamed.

He screamed and screamed, until he didn't anymore.

Moments before death, he'd wondered if he'd find his mom waiting on the other side for him.

A void embraced him in peaceful quiet.

* * *

_in this life there's no surrender_   
_find the strength to see this through_   
_we are the ones who will never be broken_   
_with our final breath, we'll fight to the death_   
_we are soldiers_

* * *

_Head leant back against the distressed wood of Rufus's cabin, Meg sat with her eyes closed, trying to ignore the musty air and the annoying chatter of the brothers Winchester that carried from the floor above. She was on babysitting duty. Again. Of all the fucking luck…_

_She suddenly felt a presence in front of her nose. Assuming it was Castiel again, looking for new ways to snare her attention, she opened them with a resigned huff. However, at the sight of the purple gameboy hovering before her face, Meg scowled, looking up at the owner it was attached to with scathing disapproval._

" _The hell are you doing?" she snapped, glaring again at the toy as though she could physically turn it to ash with enough hate. There was a time when she could have._

" _You looked bored," the fidgety prophet offered lamely. New prophet, fresh from the press. Pretty averse to being a prophet. Absurdly concerned about his mom's car prophet. His eyes darted around before they fell sullenly on his shoes. Clearly he was thinking this was a bad idea and he was about to bolt._

_Meg stared at him, eyes narrowed, before she snatched the thing out of his hand almost defiantly. "If you don't have Mario Kart, I'm setting it and you on fire."_

_His eyes lit up at that, a fleeting note of smugness there. Because of course he had fucking Mario Kart. What did the little monster woman think he was, an amateur?_

_Minutes later, Meg was cackling as she watched Castiel try to work the buttons, his expression working into an almost petulant pout. He looked completely ridiculous with the combination of those hospital scrubs, that face, and the way he was holding the damn toy._

" _Tell me something, sugar… how the hell did you ever command an army?"_

_He looked up in frustration. "I'm not an idiot."_

_Meg laughed harder and she saw that Kevin kid trying to hide his amusement, too. "Angelcakes, you know every language ever spoken, you're older than time itself, yet you can't work a fucking gameboy."_

_Castiel frowned at her, the expression actually cute and not at all menacing. "You always make fun of me," he muttered._

" _Give me reason not to, Grumpy."_

_He huffed, and then Kevin was hurrying over to him to lend a hand. Soon they were all laughing and fighting over which character they laid claim over. Kevin was never anyone other than Toad, which was weird if you asked Meg. Castiel worked through a few characters before he decided he liked Yoshi best, and Meg kept choosing Bowser as she terrorized the other AI characters on the screen._

_Dean and Sam had poked their heads down at the trio from the stairs, planning interrupted by the sounds of horseplay before they each shook their heads. Neither even bothered to ask, and honestly neither much_ wanted _to know what the hell they'd just stepped in on._

" _A prophet, a demon, and an angel gone bonkers walk into a bar," muttered Dean under his breath, earning a dry chuckle from his brother._

* * *

When consciousness finally drifted back to her, slow at first as the blackness at the edges of her vision receded, Meg turned her head to see Kevin lying beside her, his eyes burned out of his skull. She bit her lip, partly because of the pain and partly because the sight _hurt_.

_Fuck_ , she thought dejectedly. She closed her eyes, one of them already swollen shut, and heaved an agonized breath. She heard a voice then as the air stuttered in her lungs.

" _Meg?_ "

* * *

When Dean returned to the camp, the hole torn into the wall left him with a sick feeling. But it wasn't until he heard the others talking that dread began to lay heavier and heavier upon him. That feeling soon manifested into ravening violence when the words he'd never expected to hear slammed against him like a battering ram.

_Kevin Tran is dead._

Pain and rage knifed through him, lungs choked of air and the world sent spiraling around him. His fortitude frayed at the edges, something deep inside him reaching up and _gripping_. The hold was hotter than the brand of an iron, hotter than he remembered Hell itself being.

It whispered that he would find those responsible and make them pay. He would make them _suffer_.

All reason abandoned him at that insidious voice.

* * *

_light a fire under my bones_   
_so when I die for you, at least I'll die alone_   
_you can put a man on trial, but you can't make the guilty pay_   
_you can cage an animal, but you can't take away the rage_

* * *

Sam stood before what small militia of men and women remained at Camp Chitaqua, the air of the cabin hopeless and bereft. With a heavy heart, his hazel eye scanned the faces of those he trusted most, of those who trusted him. He should not have been the one giving this meeting. It should have been Dean. It should have been his brother. The leader of the camp. The leader of these survivors.

But Dean was nowhere to be found.

Sam had gone looking for him after the news had spread, only to find his brother's cabin destroyed and empty. With little other choice, Sam stepped up, taking on his elder sibling's mantle.

His gaze slid to Meg, observing the tight way she held herself, the harsh cut of her small shoulders, the tense line of her mouth, and the way her dark eyes were rooted to the floor. He stowed whatever accusation and hurt he felt at her failure to protect the young man who meant the world to so many, needing to focus on what was most pressing.

"I don't know what to say," he said finally, letting out a dismayed sigh that shuddered through his broad chest. "Without Kevin, our link to the tablets is gone. Getting our fallen brothers and sisters home seems… lost." Sam looked to Castiel, who stood in another corner of the cabin beside Hael.

The young angel was pale and drawn, her expression gutted as she leaned against her brother for support. The shadows under her eyes seemed darker, heavier. She said nothing other than wordlessly taking Castiel's hand in her own, needing the contact. Castiel remained stone-faced and silent, his eyes clouded as he stared back at Sam.

The younger Winchester cleared his throat, speaking with new resolve. Urgent, decisive, assertive. "Our priority right now is finding Gadreel. It may seem pointless, after everything, but… maybe he took something from all of us, but we're not going to let him take anything else. He's going to answer for what he did to Kevin Tran. I want perimeter checks doubled every night. Where there were two men, I want four. I want sigils covering every inch of those walls—demon and angel warding both." He offered a glance to Meg, then to Castiel and Hael. "Whatever traps you place, give their locations to Meg and Castiel. Allow trapdoors for exit and reentries, but they're to be changed every night. Any angel looking for a place here is to be vetted by myself and Castiel. No exceptions. Any survivors or rescues are to go through me or Charlie." He nodded once at the redheaded girl, who had returned from her mission after the news of Kevin's death spread over the walkies. Survivor's guilt ravaged her lovely face, and Sam knew that emotional weight all too well. He offered her a transitory look of sympathy, hardening his countenance then to continue his briefing. "I don't care if they're four or eighty-four. If they're a stranger, they're to be brought to me."

Sam released a charged breath, looking a final time over these men and women now at his command.

"Are there any questions?"

A quiet chorus of "no" and "clear, sir" rose up, and Sam dismissed the small party.

As the meeting disbanded, Jody appeared before Castiel and Hael, her disheartened expression hardly able to smile at all, the gesture too weak and barely reaching her eyes. "I can take her," she offered quietly, extending her arms out to the wounded angel. Hael accepted the help, aiming a final weighted look over her shoulder to her brother.

Castiel said nothing, although his eyes conveyed what little assurance he could muster.

"Thank you," Hael was murmuring to the other woman.

"No problem, sweetheart. Let's get you some rest. I think that little ankle biter is already missing you."

Castiel had already tuned out their drifting conversation, his eyes falling on Meg across the room. She hadn't moved from her position since Sam had started the meeting, but she looked up when he appeared suddenly beside her.

Quietly, in a tight voice, he asked, "Are you hurt?"

The question was foolish, but he couldn't think of what else to say. He could _see_ the damage done to her small body, feel it even as he looked at her—worse than when she'd ambushed him in the shower. There was a dark bruise dusting the side of her jaw that crept up her cheek and a terrible lesion torn into her temple that carried into her hairline. Other scrapes and violent marks speckled her visage and there were more, he was sure, hidden beneath her clothing. Not to mention the damage surely done to her smoke. Castiel saw how carefully she held herself, and when she'd walked into the cabin, there had been a painful hitch to her step. A fiery anger smoldered inside him that he tried to quell, a vengeance that called out for Gadreel's suffering for having not only taken someone dear to them all, but for hurting her in such a way.

Meg's gaze slid to his, a cold barrier staring back at him when their eyes met. "Nothing a bottle of booze or pills won't fix, right?"

Her voice was sharp like a blade against his effort to reach out. Castiel's eyes narrowed, a muscle tightening in his jaw. Frustration rekindled inside him at her belligerence and he wanted nothing more than to throw that iciness back in her face. "You're a hypocrite, Meg."

"I'm a demon."

There was an unapologetic slice to her whipcrack retort that only set him further on edge, his agitation becoming prevalent. "So you keep reminding me," he snapped in a low voice. If she was intent on giving him the cold shoulder, he could play that game. He knew she was upset—both because of failing Kevin and because of their earlier fight, but her need to fill every painful void with a smartass remark was beginning to wear on him.

Meg considered him with barely concealed hostility, visibly bristling at his poor effort towards reconciliation. "Are we gonna make up, is that what you think?"

Castiel's expression was tight, blue eyes locked irreverently on hers. "I don't think anything."

"That might be the first reliable thing you've said all week."

Castiel was the one to bristle now, and he turned away from her with checked animosity. "Fuck you, Meg."

She smirked at his scathing remark, both embittered and bolstered by it. "Look who grew a pair." Her head shook. "Find me again when you grow a brain, asshole."

Meg was impossible when she was feeling cornered, when affronted. There was no reasoning with her, no manner of cajoling her back to reason until she was good and ready to admit defeat—if she ever admitted it at all. Gritting her teeth, Meg coerced her aching muscles to move so as to spite him.

She turned away from him with malignant resolve, leaving him to stare after her retreating form in angry frustration.

* * *

" _Hey, Kev! I brought donuts!"_

_Dean practically skipped down the metal stairs of the bunker, cardboard box tucked reverently under his arm as he muttered about the convenience store not having pie of any kind. When he saw Kevin, he abruptly slowed, smile falling away to something softer._

_Kevin sat in his usual chair at the big table with the world map, but instead of translating a tablet or researching for a case, he simply lied there, face plastered on the smooth surface, his eyes closed. Dean's loud arrival hadn't even woke him, and, even from where he stood, the hunter could still see the big dark circles around the boy's eyes._

_His black hair was tousled and his skin seemed a little gaunt in the light. It was obvious he hadn't had much sleep lately. Dean knew he was exhausted, but between he and Sam chattering in Kevin's ear about finishing translations and Kevin's own OCD about completing a task, the kid was downright burnt out._

The faster I translate the tablet, the faster I can stop all this, _he had said._

_That's when Dean started to think about Kevin's life for the first time. Not his prophet life with he and Sam in the bunker, but his student life. He was good,_ very _good. Kevin Tran, Advanced Placement. And then the Winchesters roared into his life. Gone were those dreams, after that. Kevin's girlfriend was killed, his mother kidnapped and probably killed, too. Dean had never really wanted to attend college, but Kevin had. And now he was stuck_ here _, sitting the dark, reading some shit instruction manual an angel wrote out a couple millennia ago._

_Suddenly, Dean was angry._ Really _angry. He'd only known the life of a hunter, but Kevin—he'd had a normal life until the supernatural destroyed it. He'd never asked for it. Who the hell would ever_ ask _for this?_

_Dean clenched his fists while staring at the boy's sleeping face. Even now, at rest, Kevin Tran looked haunted. Dean just wanted to give him his old life back._

_Dean spied one of Sam's blankets draped over a chair in the dining area and he snagged it before carefully wrapping it around Kevin's shoulders. He transitioned into mother hen mode, sliding the glass of water aside and the many books on… Mexican folklore, of all things. Dean remembered a report about some strange murders down there but that wasn't his division. They had hunters in Mexico, too. Kevin must have tried to find something, anyway. Just like Sam, always trying to learn new shit._

_As soon as Dean was sure the kid wouldn't wake, he gently set down the box of donuts in front of his nose, deigning to allow him the first pick and as many as he damn well saw fit to stuff his face with. Hesitating, Dean sighed, mussing the boy's hair gently._

" _One day you won't have to deal with this shit anymore, man."_

_Maybe it was terrible what happened to Kevin Tran, but a person couldn't change the past. But maybe he could make the present a little bit better. Maybe the future would see these travails in the past._

_After seeing as much as he did in his line of work, Dean knew that anything was possible._

_There was hope for Kevin, yet._

* * *

_Catalyst_ was the word.

Something dark and vengeful inside him stirred. Something carnal and deeply profane.

Pain and hatred meshed, intensifying what abhorrence he already harbored to the point where all he could see was through a red filter.

On his arm, the Mark burned hot.

* * *

_the creditor rides with his men_   
_the death of debtors, he won't forgive_   
_they repossess his silver eyes_   
_now in the potter's field, he lies_

* * *

Realizing she was all but stomping away like an impetuous child, Meg steeled herself against the multitude of stares she was met with as she marched through the camp with a chip on her shoulder. She knew what many of them were thinking. Hell, she'd probably think it too if the situation were reversed. Despite this, the unspoken blame only further incensed her. She barely even registered how far she'd walked or that it wasn't long before she was casting back answering scowls against them, her eyes gone black and bottomless of their own accord as her tumultuous emotions got the better of her.

_Nothing to see here. Damn vultures._

She didn't realize that, along with the looks of disapproval, there were also expressions of worry. Concern. But Meg didn't see those. In her haste and self-deprecation, she never would.

It took more effort than she thought to conceal the evidence of what she was. Halfway through her angry retreat, however, she felt a sudden prickle on the back of her neck. Warning bells sounded dimly in the back of her mind, her senses snagging over something dangerous. It was much different than when she'd felt Gadreel's presence. In fact, this feeling inexplicably terrified her.

Only one person had ever scared her so completely. Only one had ever awoken such a flight response.

It was the same and yet very different.

Before she could even question the nauseous pit of fear clawing behind her borrowed ribs, Meg was looking over her shoulder and then barely registering the sight of Dean Winchester, Blade in hand, before he was bearing down on her.

Meg instinctively leapt back, barely avoiding the hungry edge of his vicious attack that would have instantly killed her had she been a hairsbreadth slower to react. She yelped in surprise, in slight pain at the too fast movement of her narrow getaway. But Dean didn't let up. His face was twisted in fury, in bloodlust, and Meg realized in that moment that he was absolutely going to kill her.

Had he lost his fucking mind?

As quickly as it began it would end. Steeply off her game and too injured to put up any sort of fight, Meg nonetheless fought her damnedest to shake him loose. But Dean was faster, too fast, completely unreachable, and her broken body protested at the strain to escape and fend him off. Within seconds he had her on the ground by her hair, standing over her with the First Blade in a whiteknuckled death grip. There was already dried blood coated along its edge and she knew it would only be a matter of moments before hers stained it too. She thought she might have heard someone call her name, or perhaps that was her own voice lost in the struggle. Meg felt herself actually start to panic, regarding him with wide-eyed disbelief—too stunned and too afraid to even harbor any sort of fury.

Suddenly Dean was careening off his feet, ripped off of her and thrown aside until he was being grappled to the ground. For all her superior sense, it took Meg some time for her brain to catch up with what was happening and realize that Castiel was fighting Dean.

Holy shit, what fuck was _happening_?!

They were already back on their feet after hitting the ground hard.

The hunter reacted on instinct to the barrage of attack. Instinct that wasn't even his own, but the Mark's. _Kill_ , it said. _Isolate and destroy_.

And so he was merciless, sights shifting to this new threat.

Dean gripped his weapon tight, fighting like he had no other choice. Castiel already had a knife drawn, and the two soldiers scuffled across the clearing with militant brutality. Fast, harsh blows were exchanged between them—Dean's resolve perhaps most terrifying of all because each strike he delivered was intended to be fatal.

The fallen angel was all about standing your ground in battle. Plant your feet, raise your blade. Interchange offense and defense according to your opponent and press advantage. Know when to fall back, be sharp, stay cunning. Every closed attack offered a separate opening.

Dean was the polar opposite, especially now with the Mark burning hot on his skin, searing away all rational thought until all he saw was red and a target to destroy. Where Castiel was constantly ducking and twisting, slipping in the spaces between an angry fist and the slice of a Blade, Dean was forcing his body into whatever tactical opening he saw or carving one out himself. Lately, Dean fought like he wanted to take the world by the throat and _squeeze_. He warred and raged like a beast, as much becoming a weapon as the piece of bone he held in his hand.

But this opponent was not his usual quarry.

Castiel may have lost his grace, but he was still a hell of a fighter and just as dangerous. Maybe more so than when he'd been an angel. His wrath now was human—volatile, uncontrollable, unpredictable. And he was pissed.

Their shouts and the sound of punches being thrown was heard through most of the camp and it wasn't long before a small crowd had gathered around the two men and demon, looking on in banked horror. The fight carried a short ways across the clearing, almost over as quickly as it began when the commotion alerted Sam and both he and Meg were throwing themselves into the middle of the fray to put an end to it in whatever way they could.

"DEAN!" Barely avoiding the fierce arc of the Blade, Sam unceremoniously piled against his brother to intercept him, getting rammed hard but managing to hold him back just barely. His arms cinched around Dean in a bear hug as he hauled him away from Castiel. " _Dean, stop!_ Hey— _hey!_ What the fuck are you _doing?!_ "

Dean fought against him, murder in his eyes, shouting over Sam's shoulder as he shook his brother loose and ignored his frantic protests.

Meg had been restraining Castiel, a vicious string of Enochian flying out of his lips, but in a single deft move he threw himself in front of her like a shield as Dean charged them.

"Move!" the hunter snarled, just barely stopping himself from driving the Blade through his friend as Castiel appeared between them.

" _No_."

"Dean, goddamn it, that's _enough!_ " Sam bellowed in his ear, locking an arm through his elbow and forcibly hauling him back. To the gathering crowd, he shouted for everyone to stay back.

Dean let out a nonsensical snarl as he fought to free himself. The two of them each had blood dripping from their noses and mouths from the dirty fight, other cuts and bruises already forming beneath the occasional smear of mud but ignored as adrenaline jackhammered through their veins.

"Get yourself under control! Put it down! Put the Blade down!"

Castiel held his ground as Dean's temper exploded outwards violently to the point where Sam almost lost his grip. All around them, the gathered crowd stared in shock and horror, not sure what to do in the wake of their leader fraying at the seams right before their very eyes. "That bitch is _dead_ , Castiel, I swear to God—!"

"Fine," snapped the fallen angel in a big authoritative tone, some of that lost, latent power returning in his voice which they hadn't heard since he'd had his grace intact. "Kill me, and you may have her."

Dean was just as murderous as when he'd been standing over the demon, half-crazed and mad with rage, ready to kill her. "What, over your dead body? Is that it?!"

"If you think I'm being insincere— _try me_."

Castiel's rumbling deep growl was low and blacker than the darkness shrouding Dean's vision, blacker than the eyes of the demon he guarded or the wings Dean had once seen the mere shadows of. It only fueled Dean's anger, his pain, the inherent need to lash out. His expression went utterly cold with wrath and he fought harder to free himself.

" _Kevin is dead because of her!_ " he roared.

"Kevin is dead because Gadreel killed him!" Castiel shouted back. "This is not Meg's fault—she tried to save him!"

"Well, she _didn't_. And now he's _dead!_ "

"Kiss my ass, Winchester, he was my friend too!" Meg protested from behind Castiel, her own temper flaring. "You think I _wanted_ this?" Her smoke recoiled from the very scent of the hunter, everything about him screaming _wrong wrong_ _wrong_. It compelled Meg to make herself fucking scarce, but she held her ground too, refusing to move from Castiel's side.

"I think you _know_ what I think," Dean snarled, his eyes dark and lethal in the face of her defiance. In his head, he was already playing out methods of escape. First, he would break Sam's arm and ground him with a backwards jab to the top of the knee. Castiel could be neutralized with—

"Jesus Christ," Sam murmured suddenly, the muted horror in his voice snaring everyone's attention.

All eyes followed his line of sight, falling on the deep, bloody tear across the front of Castiel's shirt and the ugly wound beneath. The fire in Dean's eyes tempered at the sight of his friend's blood, stunning him into silence as reality came slamming back into him. Slowly, his eyes crept to his weapon, seeing the fresh blood coating its blade.

Castiel's own rage became diluted as he lowered his chin to stare down at the damage, appearing almost dumbfounded by the sight. He'd felt a brief burst of pain during the fight, but had ignored it at the time, focused instead on containing the threat Dean had posed. Beside him, he heard Meg's breathless curse, felt her hands press against him in angry shock.

Dean's bloodlust faded as the realization of what he'd done slowly sank in, thrusting him back into control and grounding him in a way that was dauntingly abrupt. He lowered his weapon, stunned shame plaguing him as he took a moment to collect himself and regain his wits.

"—ean… _Dean_." His brother's voice broke through the fog in his head, and full awareness returned in a roaring hiss. The almost metallic, carnal ringing in his ears fell away, releasing him from its savage hold. The sudden loss of it was mourned in a way even he knew to be profane.

Castiel shook off Meg's attempts to stow the sluggish flow of blood, meeting Dean's eyes unwaveringly with a glare of hellfire and damnation. "Don't you ever touch her again."

The words gradually reached him, making Dean bristle once more. He squared his shoulders, straightening to his full height. Vindicated conviction returned in a flooding torrent. "That _thing_ you're protecting, Cas? The one that's gonna tear this camp apart? You may have forgotten what she is, but I haven't. Here's a free reminder." Dean's virulent glare transferred past Castiel's shoulder to the demon standing beside him. There was a cruel, twisted satisfaction in his eyes as he delivered his next blow. " _Christo_."

Meg hissed, her eyes reflexively snapping to black in reaction to the holy utterance.

Castiel's mouth formed a grim line, the exchange affecting him almost as much as it did her. Determinedly, he met the bulwark of Dean's almost manic authority with an impenetrable wall of his own, blocking Meg once more from view in demand for Dean's attention. "She's _mine_. That's what she is, Dean. _Leave her be_."

Dean stared at them both for a long time, the venom in his eyes never abating. Heart rates were still elevated from the adrenaline that had accompanied the argument, not to mention the physicality of what had just transpired.

Castiel saw how his friend's fingers tightened just a little more over the handle of the Blade, despite that it was lowered, and the fallen angel raised his eyes back to him in a clear, implicit threat, his hand going for his own weapon again. " _Back off_."

"Dean, it's over," said Sam decisively when his brother showed no signs of falling back. "I fucking mean it, man. _Take a step back_."

The words somehow reaching him, Dean roughly knocked away the hold still gripping him. His boots dug into the muddy earth as he turned on his heel to storm away. "Shut up, Sam."

The younger Winchester gaped after him for a long time, angrily, helplessly, before he moved to follow. But Castiel's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Sam, don't."

"He's my _brother_ ," Sam protested, somewhat indignant. Rampant distress seethed behind the hazel of his eye, the demeanor he carried heedless of any risk. He was _going_ after his brother.

But Castiel's expression was rife with suppressed concern, and he shook his head slightly. "That's what worries me," he said gravely. He understood Sam's frustration, the need he surely felt to fix whatever was happening or to damn it all trying, but Castiel recognized the inherent danger and put an end to that avenue immediately. "Sam," he cautioned in a tight voice, unwilling to take any chances. "I'll _handle_ it."

Sam looked taken aback, perhaps even stung by the words as he realized their full weight. He wanted to argue, because Dean sure as shit nearly put Cas in the ground not even two minutes prior to this conversation and the fallen angel was gonna go poke the bear?

What the fuck was happening to them all? How had everything come crashing down around them in a few short weeks?

Castiel started off after their leader, ignoring the firm grasp of Meg's fingers over his arm.

"Cas—" she started.

"Stay here."

His flat tone brooked no argument, and he was gone before she could stop him. Beside her, Sam was yelling for the crowd to disperse, citing a disagreement that had gotten out of hand. He knew no one believed him, but he was past the point of caring.

"Alright, that's enough! Get back to work!"

* * *

_I watched you change into a fly_   
_I looked away and you were on fire_   
_I watched a change in you_   
_it's like you never had wings_

* * *

He'd been pining after her. There was no denying it.

Watching her from across the dirt road, he waited for their eyes to meet but they never did. If they had, he wondered what he might have said—with his eyes or his voice, it didn't matter.

Maybe that she was right. That she was right all along, as usual. How deeply ironic. Even as he tried to call out to her, the words lodged in his throat—out of stubbornness or pride or maybe even fear, he wasn't sure which. He didn't know how to fix this quickly crumbling situation and, as such, he said nothing.

And then he'd noticed Dean just a few strides back, and a wrong feeling slowly overcame him. As absurd as the notion was, it felt almost as if a bowling ball had dropped somewhere in his gut. He felt suddenly cold.

Castiel's head canted. His brow drew together in a deep furrow, warning bells going off in his head, though he wasn't sure why. That's when he'd realized that Dean was drawing the Blade.

_The Blade._

_Dean has the Blade…_

_Meg._

_The Blade is drawn, HE HAS THE BLADE DRAWN._

What was Dean doing? What the _fuck_ was he doing?

Panic gripped him.

"Meg!" he called out, his legs already moving, swallowing ground as his mind reeled and instinct took over. Suddenly, he had a purpose again. Suddenly, in that single moment, his mind was clear.

Castiel sprinted for her, the demon all he could see as stark fear became breathless horror.

He didn't want to kill Dean. He _didn't_ , but PROTECT MEG was blaring through his skull like a siren, terror filling his veins and primal instinct throwing him right into the fray until suddenly he was fighting his best friend. Simultaneously, something balked wildly at the thought of harming Dean in any way. The need to protect warred chaotically in him like a star with no heavenly anchor, and he just knew that he must save them both, whatever the cost. Losing either of them would kill him in a way nothing else could.

And Dean… how much had been washed away from him already?

Castiel knew what the Blade meant. But he'd let Dean take on the Mark anyways. And now… now it was doing something to him. Castiel was as much at fault as any of them, Dean included. He had allowed this sickness to befall his friend, for reasons completely selfish and corrupt. He could have warned Dean about the Mark and what it would surely do. He could have warned them all and stopped Dean before he'd ever laid a hand on the First Blade.

_I could have prevented this._

The notion haunted him. But Dean had no value for his own life unless he was using it to save other people or kill something that needed killing.

Which highlighted the main problem: would Dean have even listened?

It was doing something to him. That was the only reasonable explanation for everything. Their leader's humanity was at stake and it seemed there was nothing any of them could do but wait for the inevitable blast wave.

Despite this knowledge, the fury wouldn't quell inside him. It bolstered him, drove him, and Castiel felt the cold grip of wrath compelling him to put an end to this madness before it could even begin. _Clean up your mess_.

Meg.

Meg on the ground.

Meg afraid and his friend bearing down on her with a weapon that could have erased her in a single blow.

"Save it," Dean barked out, already sensing that he had company. He gave his shoulder an experimental roll, spitting out what little blood was still oozing from his mouth.

" _No_ ," Castiel ground out in reply, defiant of the kneejerk defense as he increased his pace to match the other man's. "I won't _save it_. You'll listen, or I'll _make you_ listen, Dean Winchester. I don't care if I have to tie you a goddamn _post_." He saw that the Blade was away and he reached out, gripping Dean's shoulder tightly to face him head on. "Listen to me!"

Dean abruptly stopped, violently shaking him loose. "Get the fuck off me," he snarled.

"You are putting the people of this camp at risk. Do you even _realize_ what's happening, you _fool?_ "

"I went off on your girlfriend, and you're pissed. Spare me the bullshit."

The insult inflamed him. " _Went off?_ If that's what you call what just happened moments ago— _go off_ on her again and I'll put you in the _ground_. Do you hear me?" Castiel closed the distance between them, getting in Dean's face angrily and meeting his friend's unmovable glare. "You think you're the only killer here, Dean?" he asked in a quieter voice, though it was infinitely more deadly. "Touch _anyone_ in this camp, and I won't hesitate. I promise you."

Abaddon be damned, he would not stand for another slaughter. He was furious on every level imaginable and he wasn't bluffing. God help him, he would finish what had been started in that clearing. Dean might kill him in the process, but he would _not_ stand idly by.

Presently the hunter stood his ground, refusing to balk at the clear threat, although his furious disbelief was apparent. "Keep talking, Cas," he almost dared, his voice low and dark. The expression he wore was chilling.

"When I was possessed by leviathans, were you not willing to kill _me?_ " Castiel doled back, not missing a beat.

"Maybe, but I'm not _possessed_."

" _Aren't_ you?" Castiel hissed, reining in his anger but barely.

Dean hesitated at that, looking parts indignant and other parts restless. "You've got a lot to say for a prick with no mojo," he said softly, dangerously.

Castiel clenched his jaw, straightening to his full height. "You think this is just about what you did to Meg?" he demanded, incensed. "To _me?_ "

Fleetingly, Dean's eyes drifted to the angry tear in the front of Castiel's shirt, the bloody reminder causing a flicker of guilt to ghost behind his eyes.

"Something is _wrong_ with you, Dean!"

The angry outburst held an almost pitying note and Dean couldn't stand it. He remained silent for a short time, eyes void of any reaction. "Damn right something's wrong," he said at last, expression becoming more and more angry. "I got people I can't trust who don't mind their own business. And while we're on the subject of that little bitch, I've got some words for _you_ , too."

Castiel bristled defensively, the fire in him smoldering. "Don't call her that."

"I'll call her whatever the fuck I please. She's on my property, in case you forgot. How many times have you called her that, anyways?"

"I have the right. You don't. And in case you haven't noticed, Meg isn't the one going around trying to _kill_ people!"

"That we know of."

" _Damn it, Dean_ ," Castiel bit out, not in the mood or mind to argue over the matter. "She has been here for over a _year_ and you only _now_ lash out—now that you have the Blade! How does that not tell you something?"

"You're right, Romeo," Dean said in a cutting tone, spreading his hands in an errant gesture. "Maybe I really didn't give a shit that she was here, not at first. But things aren't adding up, man! They never have and they certainly aren't now—I mean, _think_ about it! She's suddenly back and all for lending a hand?"

Dean's tone revealed how absurd he found such a thought and Castiel stifled the raging fire he felt to respond with as much calm as he could muster. "She helps because I _ask_ , Dean."

The hunter shrugged, the gesture overdone and falsely agreeable. He began to approach Castiel and his tone was laced with deeply snide piousness. "Alright, fine. Say that's the case. What happens when you're _gone_? When she's finally off the leash?" At Castiel's stubborn silence, Dean shook his head angrily, wishing he could pound the sense back into the fallen angel's block head. " _People are who they are, Cas!_ They don't change for the better—they don't change _at all!_ "

"They can, and she has. She's not like that anymore," he insisted, hesitating then, looking his friend over in surprising remorse. Angry conviction tinged with despair. "And neither are you."

Dean tensed at that, knowing what he meant and forcibly ignoring the inference. "Say it all you want. But now Kevin's _dead_ and we might have a Wonder Woman gone darkside."

The words were deliberately cutting, reminding Castiel of an awful time when he had been the one on the end of Dean's suspicions. Disappointment and mild aversion showed on his face.

"That was low of you."

"Was it? Well, pardon fucking _me_." Dean's already confrontational tone was growing more and more impassioned, riddled with judgment. "Cas, I know you try to be a good guy, okay, I _do_. You _try_. But you're either too dumb to see it or you're ignoring everything your instincts are telling you _deliberately_."

Castiel blinked, taken aback by the sudden implication and physically recoiling. Stricken, he shook his head."So… you not only think Meg has returned to her old loyalties, but now you think I may be _helping_ her?" His tone was incredulous, indicating that he found such an idea to be ludicrous as much as he found it horrifying.

"It wouldn't be the first time you lied to me," Dean retorted acidly, with growing mistrust. "Or Sam. Or _all_ of us."

Castiel said nothing, merely stared at his friend in wounded disgust. The look on Dean's face made him feel even lower than before and the accusation left him blindsided.

"She's a demon— _still_. Who the hell knows how she's even still alive or if something deliberately brought her back or if it's even _her!_ " Dean's hand chopped through the air accusingly, the abhorrence twisting his features growing more and more pronounced. His voice punched through the air loudly, echoing slightly and drawing attention. "It's the apocalypse. Demons and Croats are everywhere and we're putting one up for free!"

"Is that what this has all been about?" Castiel asked, staying on high guard. "Her inexplicable reappearance?"

Dean was waiting with masked anger. "You tell me. I got a million fucking questions and no goddamn answers."

"It _is_ Meg."

"How the hell do you know? You're not an angel anymore, Cas, you're a sorry sack of meat and bones just like the rest of us. You don't have the same instinct as you used to, _especially_ with her—"

Castiel cursed his own panic and impulsivity that caused him to blurt out his next words. " _I_ brought her back."

Only after the harrowed confession did he realize his mistake.

Dean blinked, staring at him dumbstruck before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. " _What_?" he asked sharply, like he'd missed something or thought he'd misheard.

Castiel's face fell and he deflated, looking away briefly as he considered what to say and how foolish he was to have said anything at all. In his impassioned desperation to appeal her case, he'd temporarily forgotten the need to keep such a secret. "I brought Meg back. It was me."

Dean's face was like stone, hot fury meshing with trace confusion as he fought to puzzle out just what Castiel was saying. "Before or after you lost your grace?"

The demand was posed soft in growing anger, Dean's voice and visage darkening. Castiel didn't answer, his eyes skirting away guiltily as he recognized how this would end and how he'd backed himself into a proverbial corner.

"How the hell did you… no." Sour confusion quickly fell away as realization dawned over Dean's face, which lost most of its color. Green eyes bored into his friend's face in shock and dismay and, looking like he'd been punched in the gut, Dean blinked several times as his voice went whisper-soft. "No. Oh, you _stupid_ son of a bitch, _no_." His stunned voice was filled with audible dismay, and Castiel immediately regretted ever opening his mouth.

"Dean."

With a hollow expression, Dean rubbed the back of his head, alarm and righteous fury surging to the surface. "Who owns you?"

"Dean—"

"Answer the fucking question!"

Castiel glared silently at him awhile, a muscle working in his jaw. "Abaddon."

Dean's hysterical bark of laughter was filled with horrified disbelief. "Jesus Christ," he said, running a hand over his mouth and throwing his gaze up helplessly at the sky.

Ire rose defensively and Castiel couldn't bite back his churlish retort. "You have no right to judge me, Dean. You have done the same, and _worse_."

Dean wasn't listening. "I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it!"

He paced now back and forth like a caged tiger, raging in silence, livid, fuming, terrified, gutted, murderous. Just how stupid was he to miss it? Was he perhaps so angry with Castiel all the time because deep down, he'd always known the truth of what his friend had done? Dean reeled. He'd seen Meg die with his own eyes, for fuck's sake. He _had_ to have known what Castiel surely bartered away to get the demon back. He'd always known, because how could he _not?_ It was right in front of his fucking face, this whole time.

"You don't even see it, do you?" he spat, practically berserk. In both disbelief and superiority, Dean bore down on the other man with harsh condemnation. "How she has you wrapped around her fucking finger. Did you learn _nothing_ from Sam and Ruby?"

Temper molten hot at the continuous insults, the judgment, Castiel gave Dean a reproving glare. "Meg is not Ruby."

Dean's reply was immediate and severe, devoid of forgiveness. "No, you know what? She's _worse_. Meg made everything _personal_. Every life taken, every drop of blood spilled. She did it because she _could!_ And you know it! You've _seen_ it, first hand!"

"She did it because she was _ordered_ to," Castiel insisted imperatively, regaining some of that fire and conviction. "Ruby followed because she _believed_. And you're right, it _is_ personal. To _me_. Meg stays, I stay." Dean opened his mouth and there was an angry retort ready on the tip of his tongue, but Castiel cut him off. "You are no part of this, camp leader or not. If Meg goes, you'll have lost me as well. I'll go with her, Dean. I mean it."

"You little _shit_. I have a say because her being here puts people at risk! Her being _alive_ is threat enough!"

Castiel's response to that was scathing. "And since when have you cared about collateral damage?"

Dean had no response for that, much less a rebuttal. It was a sock to the gut that he had no choice but to ignore. "She's still a demon. And one day—hell, maybe even years from now if she hasn't already—she's gonna turn on you. On all of us. The world's in the shitter, her team is winning. Do the math."

"She won't."

The hunter's voice was low and threatening. "Cas."

" _Dean_. I said she won't." At Dean's silence, he went on. "Either you trust me, or not."

Dean gave no response for a long time, and the deliberateness of it slammed into Castiel like a wall of bricks. Dean appeared satisfied with the result as though it had been his motivation all along. "The greater the trust, the worse the betrayal—ever think of that?" the hunter questioned, shocking him all over again. "No, Cas, I _don't_ trust you. Not any more, and sure as hell not like I used to."

That stung. "Well, it's mutual, I assure you," Castiel all but growled. "And maybe you're right. I trusted _you_ once, and look where it got me." His friend looked offended by that, expression twisting up indignantly, and Castiel lost it. His powerful, loud timbre echoed through the grounds in accusation of his own. " _Look at me_ , Dean! If Meg wasn't here right now, can you imagine what I might've become? I am barely holding it together as it is! I am _fallen_. Do you even _comprehend_ what that means to an angel? Because you couldn't possibly. Meg has helped me in ways I could _never_ have managed on my own!" He was a trainwreck now, he couldn't bear to think how far he would have plummeted if not for Meg being there to keep him on his feet.

But Dean looked sick. "She feed you that line of bullshit?"

"Meg doesn't control me," Castiel said in a harsh, argumentative voice. "I do what I do because I love her!"

The outburst startled even him, yet once the shock wore off from Dean's face, all the hunter looked was repulsed. "You're fucking unbelievable."

"She's killed demons, Dean—you've seen it!"

"Lilith willing _died_ so that Lucifer could be raised, Cas! They'll do _anything_ for him!"

"You're wrong." Castiel shook his head, his voice falling faint. "You couldn't be _more_ wrong."

"Yeah, I hope to God I am. You think because her own kind hates her that she's trustworthy? Other demons hated Ruby and she was the most loyal of all of them. She's got you so off the reservation, man—"

"I am not the one who doesn't see how far lost I am. You want to be my enemy, Dean, so be it. I'll protect her. And I am _trying_ to protect you." Castiel looked at Dean with an openness and anxiety and quiet fury that was hard to get away from. "Don't make me choose between the two of you. Don't make it so I have to be looking over my shoulder. I don't need that, and neither does Sam." Castiel's expression was rueful, appalled. "At least Meg _wants_ to be saved. Sometimes I don't think there's any hope for you at all."

Dean felt something sharp and cold dig its way under his ribs at that, every one of his worst assumptions about himself ringing true in light of the accusation. Nonetheless, he brushed it aside with bitter determination, knowing he still held the winning hand. He spoke in a soft, measured, treacherous voice. "You mean you haven't been looking into her little disappearing acts? I can't be the only one. She might have you acting like a lovestruck moron, but we both know you're smarter than that." Castiel's frown fell in favor of a cornered expression and he didn't answer, lips forming a grim line. It was clear he hadn't been expecting such a low volley, and his silence alone was answer enough. "We always wondered why Abaddon never attacked the camp. Why would she need to when she's had a spy here the whole time?"

Castiel's chest constricted in a pang of unease. "Meg was going on runs for Kevin."

"Was she? Well, we sure as hell can't ask him _now_ , can we?"

Castiel hesitated at that, hating himself for it. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out as he visibly struggled to come up with a response of some kind.

"Who the hell's to say that Metatron and Gadreel aren't working _with_ Abaddon? And who's to say Meg _isn't_ working for Abaddon?" Dean let his statement hang for a moment to send guilt unfurling through Castiel, fixing him with an insolent expression at the default response that followed.

"She's _not_."

"You _know_ that? You really trust her as much as you say?"

Castiel's expression was hard, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes flickering between Dean's. The fracture there was prominent in its barest simplicity. Infinitesimal but glaringly loud. "Of course I do."

Dean looked at him, seeing right through it. Anyone else could have missed it if they weren't looking. The hunter shook his head slowly, like he'd snared him exactly as planned. "You've been playing little house on the fucking prairie with her for almost a year. And you just fucking hesitated." Dean pressed the petty advantage and basically sneered at his friend, taking savage pleasure from the reaction. "If anyone was going to trust her, it'd be you. And you _flinched_ , Castiel."

Castiel was already backtracking quickly—anger at himself, at everything, cropping up for having fallen for Dean's trap. "She's given _everything_ for me."

Some of Dean's anger fell away, a spark of actual true empathy igniting behind the veritable wall of checked fury that surprised even him. "We _all_ believed Ruby, man."

"You're wrong."

A shift had taken place and Castiel couldn't pinpoint it, but he felt it and it made him suddenly unsure of everything, unanchored and vulnerable and _trapped_.

Dean looked at him, a morsel of that old superiority returning. "Who are you trying to convince?"

Castiel's face was hard and his emotions were in turbulence. He felt the need to disprove what Dean was saying at all costs, felt like if what Dean was suggesting were actually true he might perish from the wretchedness of it. With forceful tenacity, Castiel hung onto the things he knew were good in himself, and most of all good when connected intrinsically to Meg. She had not ruined him. She had built him up and given him things he had never had before in all of time: hope, peace, stability, a sense of belonging, and of all things _love_. The admission stunned him, even silent and inward as it was. Despite this… Dean's accusations and doubting words struck him hard—to the point where his own doubts, his own fears, his own self-loathing came howling back. Castiel didn't understand. He _knew_ Meg had sacrificed the unthinkable for him.

Dean could not be allowed to be right. He simply couldn't.

Because Dean was broken. Dean was crumbling. If he was right, what hope did any of them have?

"There is no one I need convince. I believe her. That's all that matters."

Dean clenched his fists at the baseless reply and his next words were harsh and angry again. "Fact of the matter is… she could betray us tomorrow and you still wouldn't be able to do what needs to be done. Well… I can."

It was like a switch had flipped, his friend reeking once more of deadly power barely checked. Castiel tensed, feeling the weight of his weapon nearby and ready should he need it.

"You won't," he said.

"Or what?"

The dark mirror was not lost on him. Once, he had spoken those very words to Dean, and the hunter had replied with the same threat as he did now.

"Or I'll _stop_ you."

Dean sneered in resentment as he looked off, chuckling darkly to himself, apparently too revolted to even look at him. Without another word, Dean turned and left, effectively ending the dispute and severing what little friendship they had retained.

Castiel was embittered, sorrowful, resigned. Even as the tension bled from his shoulders, he felt defeated all at once. Another person turning their back on him. It was nothing remotely new to him, but it truly pained Castiel by principle. Dean, of all people, was supposed to understand. They had been closer, once. Brothers, even. How had that fallen apart? Where was the Dean he remembered? Where was the man who introduced him to cheeseburgers and rock music? Where was the Dean who was his friend? Seeing him now, so far from the man who had laughed at the image of an angel in a brothel, Castiel felt that the cost was too high.

They were _losing_ Dean. They were losing the man who loved pie, the man who sang off key, the man who treated his car like a beloved child, the man who held onto hope when there was none, the man who pushed through the pain, who never gave up on family, who always strove to do what was right, who did everything out of love. The Righteous Man.

The Mark was corrupting him. Polluting his goodness, burning away everything that made him who he was. Leaving nothing but a killer in his place.

Hopelessness ate at him, reminding Castiel that nothing and no one was safe from the world they now lived in.

This world that was burning them all alive.

* * *

Even through his anger, his frustration, the utter dejection, Dean thought of a different Cas. Freshly fallen and following he and Sam around like a lost puppy, trying to make sense of everything. Fucking up so badly at his first use of a microwave that Sam had needed to rescue him. Marveling at the growth of facial hair and having Dean noogie his bristly cheek jarringly before he'd tossed a can of shaving cream at him with a rankling word about becoming a mountain man. Learning that, for some fucked up reason, he _really_ liked putting mustard on just about everything.

Fallen Castiel was also clumsy as hell, at least at first. A memory of the dude running straight into his back and then scrambling backwards to right himself with none of his angelic composure rose in Dean's mind. It was weird to see Castiel moving sort of like he was unbalanced, like there was a weight missing from his back that he expected to be there. Dean knew abstractly that Cas had wings before the Fall, because he'd heard them flapping enough in the last few years to at least be aware, but it was hard to imagine them having any kind of substantial weight when all Cas had been to his human eyes was a Jimmy Novak shaped wrapper.

But that wasn't Castiel anymore.

Castiel was colder, angrier. He was a soldier again, and a disillusioned, reckless one at that. He was also harboring something they all knew to be evil.

Dean couldn't abide that. He _wouldn't_.

* * *

_I've watched you change_   
_I pulled off your wings_   
_I look at the cross then I look away_   
_give you the gun, blow me away_

* * *

14 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

It was no argument they hadn't had before.

"Let me bottom line it for you. You're the only friend I got, man. And to see you with her—after everything she put my family through? It fucking hurts. It's fucking _low_ of you."

That surprised him. For a long time, Castiel was stunned into silence at the brutal honesty, visibly stung with remorse. His eyes fell away and scanned the ground rapidly, as though he were trying to find an answer. "I… have no excuses for you, Dean. I've tried living without her. Even you must admit, despite your disapproval, I'm better for having her. She _is_ trying to make amends. She'll never say so, but she is. I'm… sorry for what she's done in the past. I am, truly. But you forgave me. Perhaps you can forgive her?"

Dean shook his head no, sighing. "This isn't you, man."

Castiel bristled at that, getting defensive. "Don't tell me who I am. You don't know the first thing about becoming another _species_." He took a charged pause, thinking hard. "What else can I say to you? Should I apologize again?"

His friend stared at him hard, frustrated and roiling with inner turmoil. He thought of saying something more but bitterness got the better of him. "You know what… you're always sorry. Doesn't mean shit and it never has."

Dean began walking away, and Castiel called out to him in alarm. "Dean— _Dean!_ "

"Do me a favor and don't bother, Cas."

Castiel stopped in his tracks, staring after him almost angrily now. "And what about you, Dean? What about the things you have done? Throughout your life, in Hell—this _past week_ even? Don't be a hypocrite, you are better than this!"

Dean stewed a bit and the cold fury seemed to leave him. "Maybe I'm not."

Really, that had been the beginning of the end.

* * *

_we were caught up and lost in all of our vices_   
_in your pose as the dust settled around us_   
_where do we begin?_   
_the rubble or our sins?_   
_does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?_

* * *

22 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"You think Metatron has been on earth?" Sam wondered at Meg's virulent summary of what she suspected. Knowing the answer but testing if she did.

"Well, Gadreel can't get to Heaven. They must be communicating somehow. Why waste the effort of the spell when the little booger can float down whenever he wants?" Meg shifted on her feet, clearly uncomfortable and still hurting. She looked like she would need to sit down soon. "I'd bet anything that Gadreel being all supercharged has something to do with him, too."

So... Metatron was trying to play God?

As to Gadreel… Meg had already told him how the angel had seemed unstoppable during the fight, to the point where it was completely unfeasible. Castiel had reported earlier that Gadreel was a common angel—not an archangel nor a Seraph.

"He and Metatron are probably using the tablet to power up," Sam muttered, almost to himself. They'd seen what touching the tablet had done to Cas, and so the possibility was not unheard of.

Meg nodded her agreement, grimacing a bit. Her knees shook and Sam reached out a hand to steady her. Meg appeared embarrassed by the gesture, scowling away at nothing. "Your brother's a fucking psychopath," she muttered, looking her size for once. Smaller, vulnerable. Despite her words, Sam knew her turmoil had little to nothing to do with Dean.

"Forget Dean. What the hell is going on with you and Cas?"

"Beeswax, Moose. Mind your own."

Sam bristled, his grip on her tightening. "Goddamn it, Meg, I'm serious."

"How about you worry about the bigger problem?" came the snapping retort, and she met his stare defiantly.

A muscle clenched in his jaw, and he knew exactly what she was referring to. "Dean's my brother," he pointed out. There was a darkness, a warning, nestled deep within the words, advising Meg to drop the issue.

She shook her head. "I never asked you to pick sides, Sammy. Just that you open your eyes."

Something about his demeanor changed. "Meg, I don't have a problem with you. But as far as I'm concerned, there aren't sides to pick. There's one side, and that's where I'm sitting. Dean's a fucking mess, but he's family." Sam wasn't always happy with the side he was on, but he wasn't moving either. Dean might have been barreling towards the dark at breakneck, horrifying speeds, but he wouldn't go into the dark alone. "And you don't call me Sammy."

The demon's features softened a bit in begrudging acknowledgment, and Meg regarded him with something akin to respect. "You're a good brother, Sam. Even if your brother's a giant prick. I always kind of admired that about you." She'd seen inside the younger Winchester's mind—every thought and fear. Even at her evilest, Meg hadn't been able to look on him with anything other than reverence.

Sam was scared shitless of whatever was happening with Dean. But it didn't matter. Nothing came between a Winchester and his brother. They may have fought like dogs, but at the end of the day, they would die for each other.

Sam frowned, his expression unreadable. "I may disagree with him. And, yeah, he may be a prick. But like I said… he's my family and most of the time he's all I've got."

Meg considered him, her own expression opaque and inscrutable. "And Castiel's mine."

Sam poured silently over her words, trying to get a read on her. Cas was his family, too. The difference was that Cas was all Meg ever had, he supposed. He wondered what it had taken for Meg to admit that. He finally spoke, after a short pause. "I don't care how you treat Dean. I don't care what you say to me. But if you betray Castiel, Meg, I'll kill you."

Meg said nothing, regarded him silently.

"He trusts you. Don't ever use that against him."

Trust was just another word for love, they said. The notion burrowed inside her, dismantling her and every preconceived wall she'd carefully constructed. Feeling disconcertingly laid bare, Meg scarcely noticed when Castiel appeared beside them shortly after the hunter's appeal.

"Hey," Sam muttered, quickly becoming concerned and looking his friend over. "Where's he going?"

Castiel's expression was stern, foreboding, anxious. "I don't know."

Sam frowned. "What happened? You okay?"

"Fine," Castiel muttered back, pressing a hand over the jagged tear in his shirt, fingers coming away sticky with his own blood. He grimaced a bit, wiping it off on his jeans. A trickle of blood still ran down his temple too from a cut at his hairline, not to mention the eddy of other little cuts and bruises he sported.

"Yeah, because either one of us is buying that," Meg retorted, masking her worry with contempt.

Castiel met her eyes briefly, looking like he wanted to say something but refraining. Instead, he turned to Sam. "I need to talk to you."

Meg watched the two of them walk off, feeling slighted at the avoidance. Insecure, of all things, and the realization infuriated her. She'd assumed his distance was because of their earlier fight over the pills, but his deliberate and continued reticence had her more restless than ever. Meg was at her wit's end, scrambling for purchase at the cliff's edge of her mind. The stress gnawed at her cool composure, making her feel threadbare and mired. Something was up with him. Something was wrong.

* * *

When they were alone, Sam turned to him expectably, anxiously. "What is it?"

Castiel wasted no time. "Does Dean seem different to you?"

Sam barked out a bitter, grisly laugh, looking harried. "You think?"

"Sam, I'm serious."

The younger Winchester considered him, his expression falling. "Yeah," he admitted. "Even foregoing whatever the hell just happened back there… he seems to be amped up lately. You know… _on edge_. Even before Malachi attacked the camp. After Cain, he seemed… I don't know. Different."

"Effects of the Mark," Castiel surmised grimly.

"What else?"

"He does seem angry. I mean he's always a little angry—well, you know." Sam nodded at this and Castiel apprehensively went on. "But now, it seems like…"

Sam appeared uneasy. " _More_."

"Yes." Castiel frowned, shaking his head. Vaguely self-conscious of what he said next. "He… he thinks Meg is following Abaddon and perpetuating the raising of Lucifer. And that I'm helping her."

Sam stared at him, expression unreadable but not unkind. "Are you?"

Castiel balked at the sincere question, hurt filling his features. " _No_."

Sam nodded his head. "Okay," he said in earnest. "That's all I needed."

The tension seemed to abate from his friend's shoulders and Castiel unwound some, clearly relieved but still anxious. "Meg… she's not…"

Hesitantly, he looked over his shoulder, a part of him longing to go back. He _needed_ her, needed to see for himself that she was unharmed, but he simply couldn't. Abruptly overwhelmed, he remained grounded, stuck, angrily torn.

Sam took a step forward, meeting Castiel's eyes meaningfully and laying a hand over his shoulder. "Hey. Relax. Let's figure out priority one, which is my brother. Tell me what you know about the Mark and the Blade."

"I know very little of the inner workings of it," Castiel admitted with regret. His face showed utter distaste and slight panic. "I just know what it can do. What I've seen it do."

Sam blew out a breath, running a hand over his face. "Alright. So, what do _we_ do?"

Castiel looked up with a clenched jaw and tension-filled expression. "I don't know, Sam."

* * *

_keep dodging lights, like a thief in the night_   
_the sun will rise and expose all our lies_   
_so why deny that you and I lead different lives_   
_the rivers from your eyes can't change my mind_

* * *

21 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL  
MISSOURI BORDER

Throwing two hunters, a fallen angel, and a demon into a confined space for hours on end was not the best idea they'd ever had. Nearing the end of their journey, an ominous anticipation settling over everyone at what could possibly await them upon finding the Blade, they'd pulled off road for supplies and food. Dean was being even more abrasive than usual, particularly to Meg, to the point where even Sam's temper broke and he was raising his voice. Frankly, at that point, no one really blamed each other for their individual outbursts. It was cramped and stuffy in the jeep and the sun burned hot above their heads, making everyone sweaty and miserable.

But Dean's rants continued on even after they'd filled their empty stomachs with food and drink. At one point, however briefly, Sam even joined in. It was understandable, what with the threat of Lucifer hanging over their heads. Castiel didn't blame them for their edginess, but when Dean ordered him to " _watch her_ ," as he'd tromped off with his brother to one corner of the building and left he and Meg to theirs, Castiel bristled.

Beside him, Meg scowled. "When this is all over… haircut and I are going to have a little chat about manners."

Castiel heard the banked threat there, and he regarded her grimly. "Don't listen to him."

"Super hearing, genius," Meg muttered, trudging off in search of weapons. "Kinda hard not to."

They moved along the aisles, intermittently crossing paths as they did so in the small sporting outlet.

"I understand where they're coming from."

That stopped her short. " _What?_ "

Castiel read the indignance in her voice and offered her a meager smile. "I didn't say that I agree. But I get why they're worried. Logically, you should too."

Meg faced him head on, crossing her arms over her chest. "Enlighten me." It seemed almost a challenge, and Castiel already regretted the conversation even before it could begin.

"Abaddon wants you."

To his surprise, a lopsided grin tugged at her mouth as she arched a single eyebrow at him. "Who doesn't?" she asked, grinning wider at him. There was something playful about it that he wished he could appreciate. "I'm sexy and I know it."

Meg kissed his cheek as she brushed by, swatting his backside in the process. Castiel sighed. "You know what I mean."

"Don't be a worrywart. She's not going to get me. How many times we gonna have this conversation, anyway?"

He'd been bringing it up a lot lately, ever since that demon spilled its guts on Abaddon's game plan. Ever since that night he carved into her back.

"Abaddon is persuasive, in ways that involve pain. The worst kind."

" _So am I_ ," Meg snapped—all previous playfulness void from her tone now. Her voice was like a whipcrack, her power licking at his skin as a reminder, even as far apart as they were standing now.

Castiel read the insolence there for what it was, feeling a guilty sense of remorse. "You think I don't trust you?"

"Do you?"

That she needed to ask brought him sadness. "I wouldn't have given my soul for you if I didn't." Castiel knew it was a lie even as he said the words. He'd have brought her back either way. "Sometimes you make me question my sanity, but I do trust you. Implicitly."

Most of Meg's fiery temper abated, her mouth pinching into a thin line as she regarded him. "Yeah, yeah. You're just saying that to get into my pants," she muttered, halfway teasing him as she turned on her heel to head back to the jeep.

"Hey." Castiel reached out, snatching her hand in his, holding her back. He waited until she met his eyes, smiling a little. It was that boyish one she hated and secretly adored. "I know you're more than smoke and thorns. More than what you let people see, than what you pretend to be. And… Meg, you've always seen more in me than anyone else ever has. More even than myself. You're what I want, and you always will be."

"Sometimes I think you're an idiot for trusting me."

"Me too," he admitted, offering her a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Meg twined her fingers thoughtfully through his, experimenting over the feel of them and liking what she found. "You're the only one that does, really." His eyes were vivid and startling and Meg tensed as Castiel bowed his forehead to hers. She let out a soft, anxious exhale and shut her eyes for a moment, wrangling the errant emotions scattered throughout her. The way he leaned into her, dependently and yet not, providing an anchor she could soften into and rest beside for just a minute… it reminded Meg of why she was fighting. "Kind of nice, knowing that there'll always be someone willing to stick their neck out for me."

Her quiet statement touched him and devastated him all at once.

In a silent promise and a deep yearning, Castiel hesitantly tipped his chin forward fractionally to press his lips to hers in a simple, soft, quiet kiss that lingered. A kiss he felt almost guilty to give but helpless not to initiate. "I'll save you," he murmured against her mouth, meaning what he said.

For a moment, everything felt right and as it should be and the touch of her lips made him feel less ineffective for however long a moment. He felt her responding to his touch, craning her neck forward to him to push her lips against his more fully and then brushing her nails against his cheek.

"Did I ask?" she breathed into him.

The words slid over his mind, a teasing rejoinder when spoken. Later, though, it would eventually come to haunt him.

Castiel looked down at where her hands joined with his and instead of reassurance he felt a thick, dreadful sense of doubt. At the time, he assumed it was because he doubted himself and his ability to protect her. At the time, he believed a lot of things.

* * *

_find a way to let grace remain_  
 _the ruthless way the sirens sing_  
 _the dark cityscape becomes our grave  
there has never been so much at stake_  
  _what takes years to build, takes seconds to fall_  
 _my heart fuels the fire, then becomes the flame_  
 _I stood around to watch you fall_  
 _ashes to ashes_

* * *

23 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL  
RED RIVER, NEW MEXICO

_I do trust you. Implicitly._

How then did it all fall apart? How did they get to where they were now… to where _he_ was now?

The quaint kitchenette filled suddenly with light from the generator out back as the backdoor opened and a grizzled man stepped in. He had a sack slung over his shoulder full of supplies, and another with the day's harvest. This home was less picturesque than his previous one, slightly rundown and not quite so intimate. He had a new mantle as well, but the same photograph adorning it as before.

Turning, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of Castiel sitting at his dining room table.

The fallen angel was utterly silent, just outside of the light and wreathed a bit by shadow. Cain noted the stringent hostility rolling off his visitor like smoke, a calm storm that bore no threat to him, but was powerful all the same.

"I suppose I should feign surprise."

Castiel's head canted a bit, his expression one of apathy. "We're both too old for games, don't you think?"

"True," Cain remarked in concession. He set down his belongs and took up a seat across from his visitor, sharp eyes combing studiously over him. Castiel reeked of something dark, smothered in harrowed thought, and he bore the quiet wrath of a man at the end of his rope. In his passing observation, Cain also noticed the marks of a fight that were nearly faded; over his company's face, hidden beneath the clothing he wore. That one in particular caught his attention. Intrigued, the demon's eyes narrowed. "I sense my Blade's handiwork over you."

The question there was unspoken, although Castiel said nothing. He sat in absolute silence, blue eyes cold and searching of his host's face. There was the inkling weight of desperation nearby, simmering beneath the surface of fortitude.

"How did you find me, Castiel?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not, but I admit…" Cain sat back in his chair, thoughtful. "I'm a little curious."

Castiel's voice was clipped, flat. "I've watched you throughout the years. I've seen the nightmares you've wrought. I know your patterns, your tactics—better even than most. I may no longer be an angel, but I do still remember how to be one. How to cast a simple spell."

Cain's mouth tipped in a passing smile that reeked of someone appreciating their enemy's ingenuity. "The spell you used to find me was by no means simple. I'm impressed. Although," here, Cain's tone took on a pensive edge, "your memory is not the sanctified vault you would believe it to be."

Castiel's brow quirked at that, but he didn't comment. Instead, he sat up, his boots dropping onto the floor from where he'd had them propped to give the appearance of being relaxed. "I have questions for you."

Cain said nothing for a long time, cold eyes meeting his stare unwaveringly. "What makes you so sure I'll answer them?"

"I didn't really bring anything to threaten you with. Consider yourself my last resort."

"Hail Mary?" Cain suggested in a quiet huff, seeming amused by the irony. "Daft of you, but again… I'm impressed." He settled back, silent for a beat. "Don't they wonder where you are right now?"

"They think I'm looking for angels."

"Deceptive," Cain remarked. "And yet here you are, holding counsel with a demon. You've been here before, haven't you?"

It wasn't accusatory, it wasn't antagonizing. Simply curious. Cain allowed the temperature to drop around them, all the same. As the guise of normality fell, the room darkened some too. Above them, the light flickered briefly.

Castiel had no response to that, a shadow crossing over his eyes, a muscle working in his jaw. "You know what it's doing to him. The Mark."

"Yes," Cain acknowledged. "I warned him."

"How do we stop it?"

Cain marveled briefly over the tenacious obstinacy in the biting tone, appreciating the doggedness even despite his knowledge of how it would quickly fall away. "Easy," he replied, gravely sincere. "Burn off the Mark and throw the Blade into the deepest ocean. Allow Abaddon to live and your cities to burn, and you will save your friend."

Castiel's eyes became clouded and cold at the words, darting away as he absorbed the news. Cain tilted his head, considering.

"But you have a personal vested interest, don't you?" When he had the fallen's attention once more, he went on with solemn deliberation. "You _want_ Dean to kill Abaddon, more than the others do and for more than the simple gratification of seeing her dead, so you allowed him to receive the burden." Blue eyes colder than his own pinned him, razor sharp. "I see her claim on you, Castiel."

Cain watched his company tense impatiently, satisfied he had nicked a nerve. Castiel afforded him a penetrating look, expression cynical and haggard.

"I am not afraid to die."

A mirthless smile. "No. No, you're not. But it isn't your own soul you're so in knots over. Is it? It's hers. Always hers." By his look, Castiel already knew what he was going to say, though the reluctance he wore was flagrant. "Being evasive won't get you those answers you were looking for. Speak why you really came. You're here, after all. You may as well." Cain rose from his chair, crossing over to his refrigerator to retrieve a beer. "Would you care for a drink?"

Castiel wordlessly accepted the offering, silent for a long time as he stared into the condensation that pebbled along the glass surface. When he finally spoke, there was a catch to his voice, almost indiscernible. "Abaddon told me that, if not for me, Meg would have become a Knight. Is that true?"

Cain considered his answer. Whether or not he should indulge his visitor at all. As he reclaimed his seat, he replied. "Yes." The word was delivered tonelessly, void of inflection and Castiel was snared by it, waiting for what would follow because the look Cain wore said there was more. "It was also because of you that she was slated to become one. If all as gone as designed."

Suddenly anxious, Castiel frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Cain's eyes narrowed contemplatively, his tone almost wondering. "Exactly how much did those angels rob of you, Castiel?" At his company's uneasy silence, he went on dimly. "There's a reason, even while human, that you are able to move mountains to save that demon. Have you never thought why?"

It was _all_ he could think about lately.

Cain took a slow draw from his bottle, shaking his head. "Never wondered why you were so drawn to each other? How you know her name? How you can somehow see the face she wore when her soul was pure?"

Castiel had always thought it a byproduct of his powers as an angel. Inherent knowledge. He'd clearly been wrong, if the sinking feeling in his gut was of any indication.

Cain's smile was tight, rueful. "Not even Abaddon knew what you two were."

His pulse quickened, a sense of dread washing over him. "And… what _are_ we?"

"Bonded."

Castiel's frown fell in favor of a completely shocked expression.

"You were assigned as her guardian. Your mission surely died with her at the crossroads, although I think it was terminated long before that. Even still… the two of you meeting six years ago was hardly by chance."

Castiel felt physically ill. "Then what was it?"

His faint tone evidenced his fear of the answer. His eyes had fallen away and he scanned the tabletop rabidly, mind reeling in alarm. His grip tightened dangerously over the bottle and, for a moment, Cain wondered if he might actually break it.

"Lucifer arranged the encounter, knowing the connection you two bore. He saw the mark of the bond on Amarantha's soul, so buried beneath smoke and darkness that it was almost impossible to see. He intended to use her to corrupt you. Knowing your reputation, I assume he wanted the infamous Castiel for his cause."

_I don't understand why you're fighting_ me _, of all the angels. I rebelled, I was cast out. You rebelled, you were cast out. Almost all of Heaven wants to see me dead and if they succeed, guess what? You're their new public enemy number one. We're on the same side, like it or not, so… why not just serve your own best interests which in this case just happen to be mine?_

_The devil smiling as Meg appeared from the shadows._

_Time to change your mind?_

Castiel's quiet horror doubled. Mouth gone dry, the room around him seemed to spin. With an abject sense of dismay, he tried to find a reason why she would keep this from him, a reason that wasn't horrible. He tried to rationalize and excuse the possibility of betrayal in his mind, tried to ignore how much sense it all made now. He resisted the very idea, recoiling from it in stunned despair even as he knew there was no other explanation.

_Do you ever wonder if maybe you were supposed to be on the other side?_

Her voice, speaking those very words to him. A sudden, gutwrenching thought came to him then, and he wondered if any of it had been real. Doubt and grief consumed him and Castiel had to work to get out his next words. "How… how did he even know to look for it?"

"Loyalists, I'm sure."

_Uriel_ , he thought immediately. His shell-shocked whisper pressed timidly against the treacherous quiet. "But…?"

"Why remove you as her guardian? I expect it was around the time they started digging. Learned her name was written in the Book of Hell. So they erased her from your memory." Cain's recollection was somber; averse in a strange, kindred way, and his next words were weighted by muted veneration. "You've gone off script so many times, old friend. But the affair between the two of you is what changed everything. She was the first domino. Even deprived of her, you became more and more defective throughout the years. It was stunning to watch. Curious, even admirable."

Real emotion slipped into the demon's words as he took a moment. When he spoke again, his low, rough voice was heavy with reverence.

"You see, Castiel… it's not how you two are alike. It's how you are not. Angel, demon. Grace, soul. Light and dark. There is something… _powerful_ in the knowledge that two unlike creatures are so easily magnetized. Some would call it Fate. Others call it manipulation. Point of views may change, motives may change, but… ultimately… no matter what side of the war you're fighting on, it can always boil down to two soldiers unwilling to kill each other. Sometimes I wonder if that was God's intention all along."

Blindsided, still reeling, Castiel wondered faintly, "Why would you tell me this?"

He looked dazed and Cain regarded him watchfully. "Isn't that why you came?"

"I… shouldn't trust you."

"Maybe you shouldn't, but you do believe me." Cain's eyes narrowed briefly in a grave expression, something indiscernible lurking in that glacier stare. Quiet authority rang throughout the small room in careful instruction. "Trust no one, Castiel. If you hear anything I say, heed that. Abaddon has ways of deception that make the Devil's seem like childplay. Think hard on what you think you know. Chances are, she has you tangled in so many misdirections that you're looking left when you should be paying attention to what's right in front of you."

Castiel gathered himself with some difficulty, rallying the shattered pieces of his fortitude. "If we lose… all is lost. Everything will be for _nothing_ ," he insisted in deepening dismay, though some of his cold resolve had returned. He arranged his face into stone, submersing what anguished aversion he felt beneath a thick layer of almost sinister grit. "We're _going_ to destroy her. We _have_ to."

Cain nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the opaque blue staring back at him. "Don't tell me what you're going to do. Show me."

The challenge there was unspoken, and a silent understanding passed between them.

Even as Castiel rose to leave, his eyes clouded over before departure, punctuated by the fraught tension in the air around them and the unyielding sense of lingering distrust.

"It's strange… in all my time spent watching humans… the two of you…" The fallen angel hesitated, stoic and terse. "I never once saw Abel talking to Lucifer."

Cain matched his even stare. "There was a lot you didn't see, old friend." He gave a final, parting nod, effectively demolishing any further rebuttal before it could arise. In his shadowed expression was a grim trace of camaraderie. "I'll be watching. Goodbye, Castiel."

* * *

_I was never one for pretenders_   
_everything I tried to be_   
_just wouldn't settle in_   
_I'm only a man with a candle to guide me_   
_I'm taking a stand to escape what's inside me_

* * *

He should have read his father's journal.

Maybe he'd been afraid to. Maybe he'd been a coward.

_You weren't at Kevin's funeral._

Kevin was dead. Dean could argue that the kid wouldn't have given a shit if he had been there to watch him burn.

He ducked the errant swing, rising up and burying his weapon in the chest of his attacker. There were others, of course. Dean pivoted and twisted, slipping through cracks in the armor in a violent dance. He beheaded one, gutted another. He tightened his grip over the bone, the sweltering Mark beneath his sleeve ruling his every move. He was glad for it.

The first time he'd touched that Blade, Dean knew he wouldn't be stopped. He would take down Abaddon, and anything else he had to. Any _one_ else he had to.

It wasn't a hero thing. It _wasn't_.

It was just… _calm_.

Dean knew. And he had to go it alone.

_You could have killed your best friend!_ Sam's voice was loud in his head.

He was a time bomb. A powder keg. And he was about to explode.

_Gotta go it alone, Sammy._

A feeling of gratified self-loathing sank deeply in his stomach. It had been tolerable and acceptable for some time. The need to deceive and kill and punish those he deemed unworthy in the shadows. There once had been a time when he'd found it abhorrent, barely able to stand himself.

But Dean embraced it now, fully. It was his purpose. He knew that to be true.

This was _real_.

Blood splattered across his face, wetting his eyes and mouth. Dean sliced open the chest of another victim, another captive of his Blade. He faced another on brute strength alone, savoring the buildup, waiting until his opponent was too dazed and beaten to offer any more fight. Dean buried the Blade into its sternum, all the way out the other side. He removed it with a twist, casting the remnants aside.

He supposed there was a part of him that wished he could see the end of these deep, dark hours that seemed to be changing him, warping him, dragging him down. The hopeless futility he sometimes felt down to his bones, down to the deepest part of him that was his flickering soul. A part of him—the part that gaped in horror at what he'd done to his friend—might have once hated who he was becoming.

Abominable.

That part of him fell away amid the bloodlust and carnage he wrought. There hadn't been an attack on the camp in over a month—so petrified were looters and monsters of the man with the old bone declaring Hell on the borderlands.

Some horrible crescendo was nearing closer and closer.

He had to finish it. He had to be ready.

_Kill the bitch_.

He was doing the right thing. The last Knight of Hell had to die.

His misdeeds, the depravity, it all bled away until his vision tunneled red, red, _red_.

So many believe him a hero. Even as a part of Dean knew and recognized that he was becoming something else. All around him, a storm surged. It may have been more omens, but by the look in the eyes of those he gutted and tore into it was much, much more.

_You play the hero, but underneath the hype… you're a killer. With_ oceans _of blood on his hands_. The voice skipped, unbidden, through his thoughts, a one off remark of an angel that refused to lay down her weapon and join the camp. She had vowed that she would never owe her life to Dean Winchester, that she would sooner die than share sanctuary with a monster. Sam and Castiel had only just barely stopped him from killing her. At first, he'd hated the angel for spitting his own worst fears right in his face. But he was saving people less and less these days, succumbing more and more to everything that assured him he was bred for violence and nothing more.

The Blade made him whole. It filled the void that had been missing all his life that he could never quite seem to fill or puzzle out. It stirred something prodigious inside him, something wretchedly venerable. He was poison, he was toxic… but there were things that needed poisoning. Dean was too happy to supply the venom.

For so long he'd been a desperate, wounded animal crying out for help, too afraid to just end it all because his death needed to have a purpose and serve some greater good. He was chained by mission, utterly paralyzed and lost due to his inability to perform what he'd once believed to be his only reason for existing.

Saving people.

_But no._

That was not his purpose.

_This_ was his purpose. With a vile shout, Dean cut himself a fresh path. The soles of his boots became sticky and wet with blood.

There was a buzzing under his skin, a prickling discomfort that mounted mounted _mounted_ , and the Mark _burned_. Constant and throbbing, as insistent as a physical scar, and just as difficult to ignore.

So… he didn't ignore it.

But he ignored other things—the warnings from Cain whispering inside his head, Sam's pained expression, the hurt and betrayal in Cas's eyes, the half empty bottle of jack he'd hidden under the table in his cabin during meetings—as if no one could smell the alcohol on his skin, seeping out of every pore. His father's second journal he'd cast into the safe only to lock away from his sight so he never had to look at it again.

_At all costs_ , his father had said from beyond the grave. The words had jumped out at him, startling him. Terrifying him more than anything… angering him more than anything. He'd stopped reading after that. He stopped listening to the counsel of those he trusted.

Dean ignored it all.

He stabbed through another demon, his weapon sliding through flesh and bone like butter. He cast that one aside, savoring the burst of brimstone as it was extinguished. The others faltered and looked at him with a new light in their eyes.

_Fear_ , Dean thought, enjoying the realization. _Feeding_ off of it.

_The more you kill, the better you feel._

With sick satisfaction, he tore into the names on Crowley's list with a vengeance, not caring that the once King of Hell wanted them dead but relishing the feel of the Blade slicing through them all the same. For that brief, accelerated moment, it allowed him to forget everyone who had died because of him. The list was endless, lives lost as a result of his actions or inaction. Bad choices. Wrong calls. Or simply because they stumbled into the blast zone that surrounded him. Targets tacked on their backs because they had the misfortune to believe in him.

The world didn't need any more of his good intentions.

_Dean, enough! You need to calm down!_ rang Sam's voice again in his head, begging him to stop. He pictured his brother with his hands up in a defensive stance, closing in on him, and Dean's fingers were white as they clenched around his weapon. Suddenly, he was furious.

Calm down?

Metatron was winning. Abaddon was winning. They were on the losing side again and people were _dying_.

_Put down the Blade._

It wasn't Sam's voice that time. Not even his own. Dean wasn't sure whose it was and it didn't matter because it was ignored.

Blood. Everywhere.

_Dean, stop!_

Little brother was surprised?

_Why?_

_You don't have to have it with you all the time, right?_

_Mine._

It belonged to _him_. And he belonged to it.

_I'm starting to think the Blade is doing something else… something to you._

_Stronger._

Stupid brother, so distracted, so innocent, such a fool to believe in him. To his sudden horror, Dean began to see Sam's face on those he killed instead of the faceless monsters he was used to tearing his way through. Worse, it didn't stop him or slow him.

Blood on his hands now.

Risa is dead. Kevin is dead. Zeke is dead. Hell, maybe Sammy's dead too. Cas sure as hell might as well be.

Serves them right for ever trusting in him.

Dean relished the life draining away at his hands. Through his fingers, over his shoes. He yelled against them, in spite of them, the carnal ringing in his ears like a holy choir.

Nearly killed Meg. Good. Hurt Cas, Cas was hurt. Sam scared of him. Kevin dead. Risa dead. Everyone dead or hurting, hurting then dead. Everyone is going to die, everyone was going to leave.

Pain terrible pain unforgiving pain.

But Abaddon can't win.

Dean hoped when the moment came that he would feel worthy. That the word would finally fit. That the success of this final kill would numb all that came before.

_Worthy._

_Mine._

The Mark consumed him, became him, ruined him and made him new. It was raw magnificence on clear display and, even beneath the blood, Dean felt righteous. He felt whole.

He shouted against the creature he fought now, the whites of his eyes visible around murderous green in his struggle to overpower his opponent.

It was almost too easy.

It was horrible, it was perfect.

_Stronger._

Arcane supremacy pumped through his veins, the Mark on his arm burning hot through his sleeve, making the fabric sizzle. Suddenly the beast was beneath him, his Blade primed over its throat. He was stronger than every beast now, mightier than the thing that once could fracture his bones with hardly any effort.

It fought against its end, struggled in vain and clawed at his unrelenting weight and steelier resolve. Dean bared his teeth in a snarl, a growl building in his throat from deep within him.

Anger became him.

"LOOK AT ME, BITCH!"

The beast had no obedience to him, he had no claim to it, but the thing could not ignore the thundering command all the same. Authority too potent, it had no _choice_ but to obey. A moth hovering at the edge of the flame, the creature's eyes slid to his—defiant, terrified, awestruck.

With a brutal, finishing move, Dean heaved down against the Blade and shoved it through the beast's flesh, its jugular, throat, spine. The head severed, the last of his victims dead and gone.

A deafening silence permeated the air, that carnal ring whispering against him once more in a tender caress.

Dean stared down into the frozen face contorted in agony.

The wind had stopped.

_The cries of the dead are terrible indeed. You should try not to hear them._

Dean listened _for_ them, reveling in the dying echoes.

_Need to kill. Need more._

The prodigy of Cain now stood alone in a wasteland of death and destruction. Ground strewn with bodies that had been hacked and slashed apart. The earth was stained red with the blood of the slain. No demon, no monster, no raider had survived the massacre. Every last soul and claw had perished in one man's war against Hell.

His blood no longer boiling in his veins, Dean was… relieved. Satisfied. Vindicated. A feral grin began to curve his lips. He was ecstatic. He was—

_When Cain killed Abel, he became a demon._

Dean opened his eyes, not even realizing they'd fallen closed, lips stretching to show teeth stained with blood as dark, obsidian black pupilless eyes met the world.

_You can't escape me, Dean. You're gonna die. And_ this _? This is what you're gonna become!_

_Demon._

* * *

_from dust to dust we go_   
_sick I am of fighting alone_   
_the blood I taste, my own_   
_so if there's nothing left to hold_   
_let the angels take a soul_

* * *

JOHN WINCHESTER'S SECONDARY JOURNAL  
CLOSING NOTES

The more I find, the less and less I believe of free will.

Everything's pointing to an ending I can't bear to witness. I have to stop it.

I can't have the boys looking for this Blade. Dean most of all can't be allowed to ever know of it. At all costs, _no matter the cost_ , he must never know.

Dean will become the vessel of Michael, or he will bear the Mark of Cain. That is what these findings tell me, what fate has told me, what my gut is _warning_ me. Sam will either become a monster, or a martyr. No matter his path, Dean must and will kill him. No matter where I look, no matter what details I try to alter, my sons will destroy each other.

Just as it is written.

Well, I won't have it. I'll rip up the fucking ending. _All of it_.

I'll leave them with freedom and choice, and they'll never have to know. They'll _never_ know a goddamn thing. As long as I'm around, I can stop this nightmare from happening.

Dean… son. If you ever read this, and I hope you never will or that these signs were wrong all along… you don't have to be a monster. You _don't_ have to give _everything_ and lose yourself in the process. Don't be like me.

Look after Sammy.

That's who you are, Dean. That's who you'll always be. No matter what's down the road, no matter what may try to tear that purpose out from inside you, fight it. You fight it tooth and nail, son.

Kick it in the ass.

* * *

_a monster, a monster_   
_I've turned into a monster_   
_a monster, a monster_   
_and it keeps getting stronger_   
_everything I touch isn't dark enough_   
_can I clear my conscience, do I have to run and hide?_   
_I never said that I want this, this burden came to me_   
_and it's making its home inside_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS
> 
> Enochian:
> 
> "Eaohnvozi." / Vessel.


	7. Becoming, I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sometimes forgot that she was not a woman at all. Not really. She was an inferno, a tempest. She was venom and fangs and claws. Castiel was lightning and starlight. He was an angel—light years away from the likes of a demon who was hell in high heels. 
> 
> And yet they were both from a place far beyond eyes. 
> 
> Maybe… just maybe… they weren’t so different at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter is split into 1 of 3 parts. Translations at the end.

**BECOMING** **, I**

_forgive me for all the damage done_   
_because who I am isn't who I used to be_   
_I'm not invincible, I'm not indestructible_   
_I'm only the monster you made me_

* * *

JUNE 2015  
23 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Putrid human filth and its complexities.

The chaos of emotion was so very different than the chaos bred from damnation. An influx of memories poured through his mind, searing hot. Nothing quite clear or identifiable at first, just recollections on what it meant to feel such things once. The blood brought him manufactured emotion, but the deadliest part of it all was that it triggered those memories he was supposed to have forgotten—memories of what it meant to feel pain, sorrow, heartache, joy.

It was easy enough keeping his addiction from his followers. From the still loyal pissants who were tripping over themselves for his approval. It wasn't much more difficult maintaining that air of snide authority when confronted by a Winchester slowly going mad, but to keep his condition from himself was impossible. In his thoughts, on constant loop, spilled the voices of those he had wronged.

The loudest voice being his own.

He'd been human once. All demons had. 1661, Scotland. He was miles from innocent back then, and he'd known what he would become. Still, he'd been vulnerable, plagued by human desires, the need for comfort, the need for being held tight. Pathetic, but who at some point in their life never wanted to be loved?

He didn't know how love felt. It had been too long. Maybe he had never felt it.

As a human, his mother was a witch. A clever woman able to achieve anything she wanted simply by using her charm and a hint of magic. She'd taught him a thing or two about invoking the supernatural, how to pick the right spells and keep the consequences manageable. Magic was an easy way to get what you wanted, but it was never free.

Crowley, the demon, had secrets. Secrets no one knew but himself, secrets that were no one's but his own. At least no one that was still alive. Fergus MacLeod, the living man, had been better than anyone at using secrets to annihilate. Even now, he knew the secrets of everyone—whether they sported a soul, wings, or pointed tail.

But his favorite thing when he'd been human was  _betrayal_. After all… once, he had committed the  _ultimate_  betrayal. He remembered even less of such a time. But it was intoxicating to watch, as some powerful patron realized Fergus had deceived him, that the merchant they all found so delightful and trustworthy was nonchalantly informing them of their destruction. A sudden paleness then, as if Fergus had drained the blood from their face with his own hands. And, then… disbelief: because as savvy and cruel as this new breed of leader could be, they still—despite all the misery they had seen and caused—wanted to believe that the world was there to give them what they wanted. They wanted to believe that their power was secure, that their friends were true, and that their lives would end happily. Against all logic, they still believed these things—until Fergus came and announced that he had gutted their treasuries, their alliances, their secrets, and their hopes.

Perhaps he'd been a servant of justice all along. A trickster with motives of seeing the wicked fall far and fall quickly. Truly, these were Crowley's favorite playthings: shame, secrets, fear, and hope. Strings to pull on to make the people dance. It was no wonder he was offered a similar position when he was done being human. After all, it had been his own design that he land here eventually.

He'd thrived among the demons, of course. Short-tempered, brilliant, crafty, and violent, he was considered one of the best despite the belief that he was younger than most of those he commanded. Demons were all too similar to humans, he'd learned. They engaged in infighting and backstabbing, but also evil over good, destruction over preservation. Hell over earth. All the same rubbish with a longer lifespan and a more malevolent means of execution. It was agitating, truly, to know that the vast majority of demons didn't have the faintest idea what being evil was really about. But Crowley knew. He'd seen it, first hand.

But there was little to be done. After all, if there was one thing Crowley liked better than betrayal, it was survival. Helping those  _humans_  prevail against the apocalypse had been putting the world and himself before the armies of evil. It had been electrifying. It had reminded him of what he truly was. Who he was  _meant_  to be. Even though it cost him his place in the hierarchy at the time, put him on the run from just about everyone, he was immensely proud of it. He'd found some twisted sense of redemption in the fact that, even after centuries and more of service and obedience, the real Crowley was still in there somewhere. The real Crowley that hadn't always been  _Crowley_  at all.

Humanity would always determine the end, it seemed. Weak, unassuming little humans with their shame and their fear and their good intentions. All travails Crowley now suffered. He should have known. After everything, he should have known.

His stomach curled and rancor slithered through his veins like a virus, veins still filled with human blood. Not only had the ritual thrust mortal empathy onto him like wretched acid, it reawakened something else in him. Something righteous that had been there once. A secret he would invoke mass slaughter to protect, and had. Before he'd been poisoned by  _feelings_ , he hadn't really noticed how human eyes didn't settle on him. If he had, it would've only made him feel potent. Formidable. The dirt roiling blips of light could sense the power that burned off of him and how he smelled of sulfur. But now, he'd been ruined with the toxin of desire and wanted nothing more than to turn what little human eyes remained in this desolate world on his face. He wanted to smash them all against the wall and hurl things at their squalid heads and scream,  _"Look at me!"_

For the nth time, he cursed the putrid filth pounding through his heart. He was the King of Hell, no matter what vitriol that angry ginger was spewing, or how far she climbed up the Mephistophelean ladder. Crowley could feel it within his very bones, burning bright like the fiery depths of his kingdom. Except… his kingdom was broken, wasn't it? He could fool his followers, he could even fool Abaddon if necessary, but he could never fool himself. He was all but hanging on by a thread. Not only to his title, damn it, but his  _sanity_.

Because lately, more and more, he  _missed_  it. Truly missed what he'd been  _before_. He missed giving a fuck about people and what they thought and how they lived. He missed  _feeling_. Not only that, he  _mourned_  it. Before having lost all reason, he'd been fascinated and endeared by mortals only to later then despise them. Against his better judgment, he allowed himself to reflect on those harrowing revelations.

_Can't keep the darkness dark, can you? You just have to shine a light down on all those beasties you don't want to see._

Crowley again felt disgusted with himself. He had all the power Hell could provide, and he liked it. Had the entire  _underworld_  at his feet and could do to them and with them whatever he damn well pleased. If he said  _jump_ , the demons would build a fucking trampoline to impress him. It should have been enough. There was  _no reason_  for it  _not_  to be enough. He was a god, in his own right. He made sure everyone knew it, too. That he could and _would_  do unto them what had been done to him.  _Yes_ , he liked it. Oh, did he ever.

But he didn't  _love_  it. Not really. He'd forgotten the meaning of the word until that stupid angel and that damn demon continually shoved their little affair right in front of his nose, time and again. Infuriating. And Sam… so close to curing him completely, but leaving him mired in between worlds like some mawkish antihero. He was not one thing nor the other.

But perhaps he'd wanted to be saved all along.

He was smarter than the Winchesters. Always had been. Yet they'd trapped him inside two minutes. Ruler of Hades: outdone by two mouthbreathing lumberjacks. It was no stroke of luck, it  _couldn't_  be. Years spent evading their grasp and their demon killing knife, only to be captured at the eleventh hour? Nay.

Not long after found Crowley infected with more and more of that purified blood and,  _slowly_ , bit by bit, the evil in him had been peeled away. Nearly completely, too, until it all went wrong. Even now, he could sometimes feel that glimpse of humanity dying and so, desperate, he'd send his minions out for more. Everything settled and was calm again when virtue's warm kiss was sliding through his veins again. He was an addict. He was detestable, and not in the way that he liked.

He was still a demon. But he'd also been one bloody high five away from humanity, and it was taking its toll. He'd begun to crave it—the power and purity of what Sam Winchester had never finished. Soon, Crowley found himself stocking up on human blood, found himself needing it as much as he reviled it. The depravity of it all made his stomach churn, even as he registered the unholy sight of the needle piercing his borrowed flesh. Even as he depressed the plunger and liquid empathy invaded his decaying veins and gnarled true form again and again. He loathed what it did to him, yet reveled in the high of it all.

Privately, he wallowed. With guilt, self-pity, fear, hopelessness. It took nothing to ignore it all, not at first.

The moment he'd been dragged out of that church and into the Winchesters' dungeon, the majority of those emotions faded in favor of the anger and frustration he felt. For weeks, he'd held on to those feelings. Day after day, interrogation after interrogation, he taunted them, ridiculed them, annoyed them—made himself as much of a physical thorn in their sides as he possibly could. It had taken nothing to allow those two emotions reign over himself. Because demons were supposed to be angry. It was their genetic make-up—they were conniving and chaos and  _rotten_. The anger felt good, it felt familiar.

But then he'd bargained his own escape, after helping the giant baby expel that holy freeloader. That constant eddy of anger began to dwindle with nothing to fuel its fire. Sure, he was still generally angry, still frustrated that his throne was now all but demolished and Abaddon had nearly usurped him. Of course he was. But other feelings came too.

Crowley remembered being chained down in that church, minutes away from the final injection, and seeing Sam with that sidearm he kept close. It would do nothing to a demon of course, but then… Crowley would soon no longer be a demon at all. Sam had noticed the unspoken question in his eyes, gaunt expression falling grim in the face of it. Without words, it said that the gun and the bullet inside were for him, when he was human. It would be quick, painless, humane.

Crowley had said nothing in reply, but his acknowledgement of the implication was heavy in its silence. A cruel irony it would be when he got sent back to Hell just to become a demon again. If he denied it long enough, maybe he could ignore the guilt and now the fear of what would happen to him that was gripping his heart. Ignore the painful longing for someone to actually give a shit about him. Those emotions were not his own, he told himself. It was the ritual. It was mutilating him, contorting what he was. It was something that was  _done_  to him, not something that revealed who he'd been all along.

"How did you  _think_  this would go, exactly?" Sam had wondered aloud, as though he really wanted the answer and was unsure of it himself. "You become human and suddenly that makes you a good person?"

"Do you think I was ever a good person?"

Even to his own ears, he could be so damned Socratic sometimes.

Much later, Sam Winchester would be standing before him with big brother in tow, making idle threats and throwing pitiful insults. Crowley knew torture. He knew punishment. He was never intimidated, not once. He thought of his favorite method, his favorite pet: making Meg believe that she had a happy human life with Castiel, before tearing the walls of that manufactured reality down around her.

_What did you think was going to happen? Redemption? He'd kiss you and you'd turn into a real girl?_

But those things brought Crowley little joy now. The memory instead made his flesh crawl and his gut restless.

He wasn't afraid of Castiel, not completely. Even when the fallen angel was suddenly leveling very real threats into his face in the darkened dungeon, as rent emotionally raw as Crowley felt inside, Crowley held ground. He wasn't even afraid of the demon known as Meg.

But he was  _terrified_  of them together.

He'd seen what they could do as one. What chaos they wrought and the kingdoms they'd torn down around them when united.  _Maybe_ , Crowley had thought, if he unleashed the two of them on Abaddon somehow… it could work in his favor. He had other motives of course—when did he not?—but that was trivial in comparison. Because even if his steady indulgences of human blood made it almost impossible to be as cavalier with Castiel as he would have liked… humanized, lovesick Cas hadn't needed much of a push. He was easy to rile up, especially where she was concerned. Predictably, he'd all but swan dived into the Pit to raise his little demon Delilah back to life.

Then, one day, Sam motioned for Dean to leave. When the door slammed shut, youngest Winchester turned on him with a look Crowley hadn't seen before. There was something in Sam's eyes he never would've even imagined the boy capable of. That day, Sam surprised him.

"Remember, Crowley. Your throne was meant for  _me_." Even the way he spoke, the inflection of his voice, was alien. "There's a reason you're still afraid of me, whether you want to admit it or not."

Crowley didn't deny it. Instead, he waited. Curious despite himself to see what Sam might say next.

"You know, everyone always says how good Alistair was, and how good his students are… but who do you think trained  _Alistair?"_  Crowley's eyes were busy pulling him apart, silent but comprehending exactly what he meant. Sam appeared satisfied with the reaction. "Yeah. So when I say I learned from the best? Well… bored archangels are a lot more creative than demons."

Oh, Crowley knew that to be true. He knew all too well.

It was the following day that Dean came to him, practically begging for his help on ridding young Sammy of an unwanted passenger. It was blind luck, because Crowley knew that if Sam had been allowed a crack at him, he likely would have spilled more than just his guts.

Presently, Crowley sat back in his seat, ceasing his reflections. With the sensation of reviled and despairing warmth settling again over his bones again, he tossed the syringe away with a vicious grunt. It clattered into the nearby bin with the breaking of glass. The contents would be disposed of and burned within the hour. Feeling not unlike a junkie after another hit, Crowley scowled into the black sand hourglass on his desk. One month until Lucifer rose.

The door to his office creaked open, the ramshackle surroundings and his unwelcome visitor doing nothing to alleviate his plummeting mood. "Sir."

"The hell do you want?"

"She's killed eleven more."

Crowley affected an expression of immense distaste. "Knew that little nutmeg was going to bring me trouble. Suppose it's part of her charm."

"We're sending a team for her, I assume?"

Crowley did his best to look at his underling as though he were a baby who had slobbered on something very important. "You witless skanger. Use the brain the devil gave you. For a moment:  _think_.  _If_  Castiel's darling love interest is in fact working for Abaddon, that means she has Abaddon's entire army behind her. Pray tell, Ioan… do you want to go fight an army?"

Ioan had the decency to appear chastened. "No, sir."

"Then get out of my face. Your existence gives me a headache."

Alone again, Crowley reclined back a bit, dark eyes fixed on the unremarkable ceiling. He knew when the moment to strike against Meg would present itself. She would need to be distracted, both emotionally and strategically. She had a weakness he knew all too well how to exploit. In doing that, he could finally put her out of her misery. After all he'd done to her… wasn't that the  _humane_  thing to do?

Yes. Because he was still a demon. And he had a throne to reclaim.

Negating any moment of weakness he might have had in the past, he'd never asked for a second chance and he sure as hell didn't  _want_  one. But… did he pine for his throne?  _Did_  he, really? Being the leader of fallen men entailed deception, murder, torturing those who stood in his way… being alone.

No. It didn't matter how tired of it all he was. So tired of the scheming and the killings and not even knowing who he was anymore. Crowley was no secondhand copy, no radio edit. He not only ruled Hell, it ruled  _him_. There was no choice in the matter. It was who he  _was_. Who he was born— _created_ —to be.

Crowley picked up his transmitter and sent out the call, curling his lips into what he had long-considered his most frightening smile. One he'd perfected to give demons who disobeyed him, one to let them know they were moments from pleading to be dead. "Lola. Darling. Time for another date."

Humans could be evil. Throughout the ages, that fact had been proven in stunning detail.

No matter the affliction that consumed him now… so could he.

* * *

_help, I have done it again_   
_I have been here many times before_   
_hurt myself again today_   
_and the worst part is there's no one else to blame_

* * *

Shutting the door to their cabin behind her, Meg took the opportunity to lean heavily against the wood as she heaved a weathered sigh. Most evidence of where she'd been had already healed, but small shockwaves of pain still cantered through her body from a range of injuries. She wiped the remaining blood from her face with a towel, snagging it from the counter in the kitchenette they never used. She hissed a bit, pressing a hand to the cracked ribs she'd sustained at the careless movement. Crossly, she tossed the towel into the sink with some force and considered things.

Her weapons would need to be cleaned and sharpened again. Meg thought that maybe she'd sliced through more bone and cartilage in the last few weeks than she had all year. It didn't really bother her—killing was what she was good at. But the clean up was a bitch. Still, she used to enjoy leaving a bloody trail in her wake, operating on chaos alone.

Lately, however, things were different.

She had to be more careful. Meticulous. The bruises were healing, but they served as a reminder. The demon felt somehow marked by them, tarnished, and all that other symbolic shit. She wasn't clean. She wasn't innocent.

She was doing what had to be done.

Finished washing up, Meg looked around, listening for him. He'd already been gone longer than expected— _tracking angels_ , he said. At the time, she'd tried to badger him out of it, but Cas wasn't hearing any of them. He wasn't hearing her. The pigheadedness came as no surprise, but Meg still couldn't understand it. There was only so much one man could do for those unwilling to be saved, and all he'd gotten out of his past efforts to help was heartache and misery. Not to mention it was  _dangerous_ , especially after last time. Cas wasn't stupid, even if he acted like an idiot most of the time—he knew the risks. But, with angels, it never seemed to matter. There were other things he would throw himself into the frying pan for, but Meg was content to chew his ass out on the angels for now. She'd expand her horizons once he made it home alive.

And when had she started referring to Chitaqua as  _home?_

Feeling somewhat pissy in general, Meg remembered how he'd promised to discuss his involvement after the runs. But when she'd gotten back that day, he was already gone. She could have followed him— _should_  have followed him—but was too committed to her own cloak and dagger mission. Shortcomings aside, Meg always finished what she started. While being horns deep in shit was not a nice place to be, it got done what needed done. Sometimes, she had to remind herself of that.

Finding the room empty of him, Meg felt a flare of anxiety wash through her. He still wasn't back, then. Quelling that nagging feeling, she determined to afford him whatever space he apparently needed. Things had still been rocky between them when he'd left, after all—a fact she admittedly wasn't proud of. That thought alone was enough to bring her worry crawling back. If something happened to him… if something happened, and she could have  _been_  there…

Meg forced away the dark thought, agitated all over again.  _Stubborn jackass_.

Missing him despite everything and restless with his absence, she expelled a sigh of deep frustration and turned around—only to give a startled yelp at the sight she was met with.

Just out of the light, there he stood, watching her.

Meg heaved a rattled breath, fixing him with her dirtiest look and bullying her suddenly racing heart back under control. "What the  _hell_ , Cas?" she snapped. How had he  _done_  that? She'd grown accustomed to his appearing act when he'd been an angel, but certainly not when he was powerless. "Trying to see if demons are capable of pissing themselves?"

Her shock was masked with an indignation she hoped he fell for. However, at his lack of response, Meg's eyes narrowed and the anxiety she'd felt before swelled a little higher.

"What's the matter, Daddy Warbucks, no more orphans?"

Castiel continued to say nothing for a long time, merely regarded her with that same empty stare. Meg could barely make out his face, but what she could see was held gaunt by something dark… almost sinister.

"I wasn't looking for angels."

The demon bristled at the confession, her hackles rising. "What?"

The word was sharp like a whip crack, an almost physical punch, but Castiel gave her no sign of life at all. He looked haggard and exhausted, like he hadn't slept in days. And there was something fragile beneath that stone exterior she couldn't understand, something that made him seem desperate and dangerous.

She knew him better than anyone, and she couldn't read him. The realization of that alone was intensely off-putting. Still, despite the hornet's nest of emotions that was assailing her, Meg's anger won out and flared hot in the face of his admittance. "Careful, baby, your pants are on fire and your ass might get burnt." Her tight smile vanished in favor of a scowl. "First those pills, and now this? What's with the lies all of a sudden, because I'm fucking  _sick_  of it. And you  _know_  I get stabby when I lose my temper." Castiel remained silently livid and calculating as Meg began to berate him. Once more, she tried to crush that sense of worry burgeoning fast in her chest, because something wasn't right about this. Even as her irritation got the better of her and she lashed out, she instinctively knew that it would do no good. "Damn it, what if something had—"

"You?" he uttered then, effectively cutting her off. Castiel's eyes were narrowed, and when he spoke again it was almost a growl. "You think you have any right to lecture  _me_  on lies?"

Meg's expression gradually fell, unease beginning to creep along the nape of her neck. The question, artfully worded as an accusation, wasn't what she'd expected. Shifting her weight, she couldn't help but be unnerved by way he was looking at her. He was completely removed, hostile even, and that distance was beginning to alarm her. "What's that supposed to mean? Where were you?"

"Looking for Cain."

Shit. The words sent an arrow of fear lancing through her, and the apprehension Meg felt rose to a fever pitch.  _Cas, no_ , she immediately thought. It had to be for Dean. No other reason, it couldn't be. But why else would he be looking at her like that?

Her body's heart rate spiked all over again. "Have you  _lost_  whatever's left of that void you call a brain?" Her sudden fear for him was no ruse, but she focused on it all the same—wishing desperately that he would follow suit. "Goddamn it, Castiel, he could have  _killed_  you! Why would—"

"You look scared, Meg." He was advancing towards her now, the intensity in his voice quiet and shocking. "Are you so certain it's because of your concern for my wellbeing? Or is there another reason?"

She'd been so set to apologize to him, to assure herself that he was safe, but the unexpected attack made her catty and defensive instead. And she sure as hell wasn't in the mood for these games. "What other reason would there  _be?_ More importantly, eighty-six the righteous asshole bullshit, or—"

"Stop."

"Stop  _what_?"

His reply was immediate and menacing. "Stop.  _Lying_."

Terrible doubt seized around the demon like a vice, because it was then that Meg caught sight of the angel blade gripped tight in his hand. "What the hell is that for?" she demanded, a tinge of panic leaking into her voice.

Blue eyes dropped momentarily to the treacherous gleam of steel. "I haven't decided."

The words hit her like a ton of bricks, and Meg felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. "Jesus, Castiel."

"Do I need it?"

But she had no answer for him, and that lack of reply frightened him as few things in his long life ever had.

Castiel's eyes remained cold and warring against hers, and his voice left no room for dispute as it lowered to a razor sharp command. "You're going to answer every question I ask you, and you're going to do so  _truthfully_. Am I clear?"

The demon had taken an anxious step back, her small host body riddled with tension. "Put that blade away, and we'll have a fucking tea party for all I care."

Had he completely  _lost_  it? Meg couldn't believe what she was seeing—there was only one other time she'd ever been this scared of him, and even then… it hadn't really been him at all.

"You think this is for you?" he retorted, and the lack of any affection was startling. "Because I haven't decided whose heart I'll be putting it through. Yours or mine."

Uriel's voice filled his head from years ago, unbidden.  _With you, we can be strong enough to raise our brother._

How long had they been trying to turn him?

He would never allow himself to be a tool, never again. In the midst of that, he couldn't bear the thought that, of all people… not  _her_. Castiel didn't think he could live with that.

Meg couldn't reconcile whether she should take a step back from him out of fear, or reach out to him for the very same reason. She'd never seen him like this before—not even when they'd been  _enemies_. "Is this… is this about the runs?"

"We can start there."

She gathered herself at the abrasive reply, ignoring that inborn instinct to flee or fight. This, she could smooth over. This was nothing. He'd be pissed, but he'd understand. "I wasn't lying. Not really. I told you those runs were for Kevin, and they were. He and I had an arrangement. I'd hunt down Crowley, he'd keep his mouth shut about it, and in the process I'd help him find his mom."

Castiel was unreadable. "Why keep it from me?"

"Is that really so hard to wrap your head around?" Maintaining her cool demeanor was a struggle, and Meg's voice wavered, instantly giving away her trepidation. Dark eyes never strayed from his blade for long as she filled in the blanks. "You would have tried to stop me. You have too much on your shoulders as it is, and the kid didn't want shit hitting the fan anymore than I did. Especially with the way Dean was bitching at him lately." It was also true that she worked better alone, or at least used to. It was what she knew—for a long time,  _all_  she knew. It was messy, but it got the job done, and it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

And she'd been close.  _So close_  to finding Crowley, to worming her way back into the game, and everything was falling into place… yet… why now did it feel as though everything was falling apart?

"I know it was shitty. But I was trying to help."

"How considerate of you." Castiel's tone held no warmth at all, and none of the animosity had fled from his eyes. "You expect me to believe that?"

Meg bristled, just barely holding back her wry retort. "I had to do it the way I did."

"Why?" he instantly demanded, stepping into her space in a manner that was deliberately meant to intimidate. "Why did you have to do it that way?"

Meg's lips pressed into a grim line, not appreciating the power play but understanding she owed him the explanation. More, she saw the hurt buried there beneath the anger and sought to make it right. "I needed him to think I was working for Abaddon. For Crowley to believe it…  _you_  had to believe it."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Meg knew it was a mistake. All emotion disappeared from Castiel's face, what little there was to begin with, leaving only that arctic coldness in his eyes. His jaw tightened, all light in the room seeming to avoid him completely, and he was utterly inscrutable to her.

Frustrated and somewhat cornered, Meg shook her head at his silence. "If Crowley thinks I have Abaddon backing me, it buys me some time. He won't send a firing squad if he thinks they'll all die. It's just me. I needed to forge some kind of back up. This isn't the first time I've rigged the chess board, I know what I'm doing."

"So you played me," Castiel surmised flatly. " _Me_."

"Like I said. I had to." Reviling her actions more and more, Meg's expression lost its mask of neutrality. This wasn't going well, not for either of them. She hadn't found any pleasure in deceiving him, and it was bizarre to think she ever had. Any thought of hurting him now brought her no amount of peace or sense of superiority, and for him to believe otherwise was devastating. "Don't for a second think you mean nothing to me. You know better than that."

Everything she was, everything she  _became_ , it was all through him. He had to know that. Didn't he?

Meg waited for the murder to leave his eyes. She waited for him to put away that blade, but neither of those things happened. Her dark gaze roved over him carefully, searched his face, and then she realized… shit. There was more.

A chill stole over the demon then, icy dread making her voice catch. "This isn't just about the runs, is it?"

If his words and expression were killing her, the effect was the same for him. Despite the empty veneer he wore, Castiel appeared somehow physically in pain at her words, as though he'd been expecting a falsehood and had gotten one. His eyes had glazed over and, even though he was looking right at her, he didn't appear to be seeing her at all.

"Cas?"

Her voice gave him a forged sense of security, and Castiel tried to ignore it.

_No._

He reeled, wrestling with himself and trying to get a handle on his emotions. Everything now made him wonder at her sincerity. If any of it had ever been real at all. If she was lying to him, even now. For so long, he'd been certain it was too good to be true. That having her with him, despite the state the world was in, was too good to be true. She was everything he wanted, and she'd been his. But… had he been right, all along? In that present moment, it felt as though he was losing everything that ever mattered to him. Castiel questioned his own sanity, his choices, reality itself.

Meg saw that panic and internal conflict and immediately tried reaching out, thinking that maybe something was actually wrong with him. "Hey…"

In an act that startled her completely, he yanked himself out of her touch and became instantly defensive, shouting at her. "Don't  _touch_  me!"

Visibly shocked, Meg saw that the blank façade he'd kept fixtured was now gone—in its place an alarming mixture of rage and despair. She lost most of her defiance, the dread and confusion she'd felt before now spilling over for the world to see.

Castiel went on venomously, in a voice so burdened with pain and accusation, because this was how it was going to end. "Cain  _told_  me, Meg. He told me  _everything_ —about how Lucifer chose you to corrupt me. How you were supposed to twist me into an enemy against Heaven."

The demon in front of him went instantly cold, all color draining from her face. That look alone was in so many ways an answer to the questions burning in his mind, and Castiel saw red. His expression twisted, like he couldn't stand the sight of her, or couldn't bear to be breathing—Meg couldn't tell which and she feared to know.

"And you believe him?" she asked. The velvet notes of her voice had fallen somewhat faint as all resentment faltered in place of something far worse.  _Guilt_.

Castiel saw it and wanted to die. Still, in spite of everything, he couldn't help the reckless desperation he felt for her to prove him wrong. Even as he confronted her with such finality, every fiber in him fought against all logic to go to her. To reach out, to touch her, to lose himself despite every ounce of reasoning he possessed. She had ruined him, unmade him. "What  _reason_  has he to lie, Meg?"

She appeared affronted by that, even hurt. As though he was the one with the pieces of silver in his hand. "But  _I_  have reason?"

"You have  _every_  reason!" Castiel yelled. Righteous anger slammed through him in the face of her denial, and with each passing moment, he became colder and more resigned.

Meg promptly abandoned whatever composure she'd had before. "I've  _bled_  for you, Castiel." Red lips parted around the snarling reminder, but there was terrible vulnerability to the words as she said them. Her voice, even in the face of her blustering rage, shook like a violin string about to snap. Her angel was like a stranger, barraging her as though she were the enemy. As though the past year together had meant nothing. "I  _stayed_  with you!"

Even she seemed to realize how little that statement helped her case while only proving his.

All Castiel could think was:  _that's not an answer_. He saw how gutted she was by his accusations, but with each moment that passed where she said nothing, his darkest fears grew and grew, imagination working up one nightmarish scenario after another. He fought the urge to pace, battled the doubts and second guesses which told him he'd lost his mind. His eyes bored into hers, wild and angry but still with that small breadth of hope.

"Were you planning this from the beginning? All of this? The hospital, helping me,  _dying_ —" Meg opened her mouth to protest, looking as though she were about to refute it all again with hurt indignation instead of any real answer. The callous authority in his low voice cut her off. " _Answer_  me!" At her prolonged silence, Castiel shook his head, growing frantic and feeling rent in half. "Tell me you didn't, Meg.  _Tell me_ , and I'll listen. Say _something!"_

The truth was said when she said nothing at all. Meg's expression wavered and eventually fell, and she looked away in grave resignation, confirming everything with her silence.

Shell-shocked, Castiel stared at her as if he didn't know her. Like he didn't recognize her at all, and couldn't decide if having the truth was better or infinitely worse.

The only person in the room who looked more defeated than him was Meg. "It started out that way," she said quietly.

He reacted in blank disbelief at the admission, looking like he'd been punched in the gut. "I defended you," he said, whisper-soft, the stain of betrayal bleeding into his words. "I  _believed_  in you."

Mortified, Meg instantly protested, taking a charged step forward. Her voice rang loud and clear like the shattering of glass, and it looked as though she might shatter too. "Don't you say that to me, Castiel. Don't you—!"

With a tight voice, he cut her off. "How did it end?"

He ignored the itch in his bones to reach out and abandon that malevolent resolve eating away at him, because he couldn't be weak. That long-gone instinct to burn her out flickered idly again now beneath the surface, as though something in his brain had reactivated. Something that didn't belong there, but compelled him all the same. Even in his outraged state, he could feel the phantom strings pull taught, commanding his every move.

" _Meg_ ," he snapped at her confused pause. For a moment, he seemed almost automatonic. Like he'd remembered his programming. "You said it started out as orders. How did it  _end_?"

Meg hesitated, wishing for once that he would let it go. She'd back him on anything else if he would just leave this one alone. Pride flared inside her heart, defiant even in the face of her shamed surrender. But Castiel's harsh, aggrieved expression may as well have been an angel blade piercing through her ribs. Forlorn with herself, she answered him. "The plan fell apart once you threw me in that ring of fire. After that… Lucifer was in the Cage. You and the Winchesters had won. It didn't matter."

"So there was no point?" he asked, voice ringing hollow even to his own ears. "No purpose?"

Meg wanted to scream.

"There was purpose. But not for Hell."

She hadn't just been exiled because of Crowley putting a price on her head. She was ostracized without end for the things she did with the wayward little angel standing in front of her, demanding answers she couldn't possibly give. For the things she  _felt_  for him,  _gave_  for him. But, at Castiel's expression, Meg had no more hope now than she did moments ago.

"You still think I'm working for Abaddon," she surmised. He could see she was visibly rent raw, withering. "What if I was? What would you do?"

She feared the answer.

So did he.

"I don't know," Castiel admitted grimly, his rough features clouded with indecision.

"You don't know," Meg muttered, dodging his eyes. She tried to sound patronizing. "Well, I'm gonna need a little more than  _that_ , angel."

"What do you want me to do, Meg?" he demanded in a hard voice, stepping closer. "What do you  _expect_  me to do?"

Out of things to say, Meg just looked down, feeling like utter shit and wishing for the times when he would tell her how it was going to be okay, that they'd get through this like they did everything else. But there was no gentle touch, no tender words shared in a whisper between them now. No reassurance of affection.

_It was never supposed to be like this_ , she thought, becoming desolate. How had their roles shifted? How did it always seem to fall apart, just when they needed each other most? No matter what adversity threw at her, no matter the wars she had to fight—whether against Hell or in herself—Castiel had always been her lighthouse in the storm. She couldn't lose that, not again. She couldn't do this without him anymore. He'd wrecked her. "I want you to believe in me."

Some of his anger faded at that, hard lines falling away. The tempest looking back at her softened without meaning to, and the cold resolve he wore like armor cracked and began to thaw. That voice in the back of his head abated, drowned out by something else.

Meg was everything.

Castiel would love her to the point of ruin, until both their lungs were filled with ash. Even as he looked at her now, even as she was surely deceiving him before his very eyes, the fallen angel irrevocably knew it changed nothing.

He belonged to her.

With terrible realization, he saw that the things he felt could not be smothered within a day, nor any lifetime. No matter the cost, and despite that the devotion he felt was wounded and limping in the wake of such treachery, Castiel  _saw_  her. He saw the lies, the deception, and  _knew_  he would still do anything for her. The thought terrified him as nothing else ever had, and it found him mired at an impossible crossroads. Except… this time it wasn't his soul on the line. It was his heart.

All at once, they both realized how disastrous the situation had become. Hatred meshed clearly with the pain Meg wore but tried so hard to hide—hatred of him, of herself.

"If you're so convinced I'm your Judas, kill me."

He couldn't, of course. Even as he still gripped that blade tight in his hand, no such thing would ever happen. He  _couldn't_ , and she knew it. He'd been ready to—out of his mind with the realization that he might have to—but no. He ground out his next words, unable to reconcile the decision he needed to make. "I'm trying to believe you, Meg, I'm  _trying_. But you have to give me  _something_."

" _Give_  you something?" Her own fury rose up in spite of her panic. With it, Meg closed in on him, voice becoming high and uncontrolled. "I've given you  _everything_!"

"And I  _haven't?_ " Meg's fire abruptly faded as Castiel's conviction grew. It made his voice emotional as he threw that anger back in her face. "I have sacrificed everything for your sake! Done everything in my power to keep you safe! My motives have only  _ever_  been to help you, and now I find it's been for  _nothing_?"

_Never_ , she wanted to tell him. How dare he think it meaningless, how  _dare_  he! It was like taking a splash of holy water to the face, but Meg saw how deeply that hurt went, how shaken to the core he truly was. The sight of it made her want to grovel, because she was the one who put it there.

"When I trust someone, the world  _always_  pays the price… don't  _you_  betray me, not you—" Castiel broke off, teeth gritting against the words, and he squeezed his eyes shut briefly. When he opened them again, he stared at her with clear anguish and a longing so conflicted it hurt to look at him. "I love you, Meg."

The words were like a gunshot between them.

Meg shrank beneath the weight of that confession, fear gripping her with icy talons. He loved her. She knew that he did, but to hear him say it… the last time he'd said those words to her, everything had fallen apart. It had nearly killed them both. It was a trigger, and he didn't even realize.

Why was nothing ever simple? Why did this bond have to  _break_  them?

"I  _love_  you. Despite every instinct I have screaming at me right now that I shouldn't… I can't stop. I can't wash that clean." With every harrowed word, Castiel took a step closer, became more impassioned. "I'd sooner kill myself than hurt you at all, and it's…" His eyes, beseeching as they looked into hers, grew mournful. That deep voice a little less steady. "Just… please. Be honest with me. I know there's more—something you're not telling me.  _Mialon_ , I don't care why. I don't care that you've been lying. Just… tell me…  _what_  is going  _on_." He stared at her with a helpless, gutted expression, and Meg couldn't bear to see him like that. Softly, Castiel asked her, "Don't I at least deserve that much?"

His grief was palpable, and Meg wished she could comfort him. He was begging her to, and her fortitude was crumbling around her like pillars of sand. Overwhelmed still by his confession, she was consumed by thoughts of her own inadequacy and failure. Her depravity, her  _cowardice_ —all things a demon should never feel at all. It ran through her mind in a dark loop. She'd been trying to do the right thing, and how pitiable it was for a beast to harbor such motivations. How perverse, because  _of course_  those motivations would never end well for a thing like her. Despite this, Meg felt more and more of that sickening doubt deep down inside, about her choice to keep something so critical from him. She really was despicable.

For months, she'd felt that every time they were together, surely  _this_  time Castiel would discover everything, surely  _this_  time he would catch her in a lie. It was who she was, and yet… a small part of her hated to mislead him. More, she hated who she was becoming because of it.

Had it ever been a desire to protect him? Or was it simply her own self-preservation that ruled her actions?

"How'd you ever allow yourself to feel anything for me?" she wondered miserably to herself.

Castiel gestured powerlessly. "I don't know," he grated out, and that desperate edge had not left his voice. It felt as though a steel band was tightening around his chest as he awaited what she might say. Needing her still to just say  _something_. "I asked you once… if you knew something I didn't, would you tell me? You never answered."

Meg heard the silent plea even before he said it. Her stomach dropped to her feet when she realized what would come next. What he was asking of her now. Feeling suddenly suffocated, she began to retreat, shaking her head. "No. I can't. I  _can't_."

Not now. Not ever.

Castiel lost all sense of composure he'd managed to uphold. Meg was clamming up, withdrawing from him, and he was going to lose her. Pitching forward, his blade was forgotten as he seized hold of her shoulders. "Meg, no!  _No_. Don't shut me out!  _Talk_  to me! I can't help you if you say nothing. Look at me!"

"You can't ask this of me—not  _this_!"

"I  _am_  asking, because there's no one else! There's something  _missing_  in my head and I can't… it's  _right there_ , I can feel it, but no matter what I do, I can't touch it." Castiel's voice was strained and hoarse, growing less angry and more just genuinely dismayed. Her eyes tried to look away again, but he forcibly shook her. "Damn it, Meg, just  _tell_  me!"

Terror. Blind terror filled her to the brim at the thought of telling him everything. Too many times, she'd been burned. She had sacrificed  _everything_  with him before. Confessed things she never spoke of to  _anyone_. It was the only time she'd ever opened herself up, and it had backfired horrifically. It was being back in Hell, the very definition of insanity. She couldn't do that again. She couldn't go  _through_  it again. She  _couldn't_.

But Castiel was standing there, a breath away and sheer hopelessness stark on his face. He asked her for the truth, he asked her again for everything, and Meg was utterly powerless to deny him. No matter what she said next, he'd likely flay her, but she couldn't bear to see that look on his face any longer.

She weighed the risk—protect herself and chance losing him, or lay it all on the line right here and now. In that wild, devastating moment, Meg experienced a strange moment of clarity. Even scared out of her wits… she would always choose him.

" _Ol hoath_ ," said the demon finally, emotion filling her voice. The words, her expression, were a wrecking ball against his anger. All the air rushed out of his lungs, her reply leaving him mute and breathless. " _Aishh lit apachana oe mtif cnila, od malpirg oe mtif ooanoan_."

Castiel stared at her, mystified and somewhat afraid. "How do you know those words? How… how do you know Enochian?"

Meg looked down, grasping for a bravery she'd always kept on hand, but which seemed to desert her now. She stalled for a moment, visibly struggling for a response of some kind, and then destroyed him. "You used to speak it to me." When she looked up at him again, Castiel was startled to see those dark eyes shining with tears. "You came to kill me that night."

Not unlike this very moment. No matter what they did, time seemed to always trap them in the same infinite loop.

"Which night?"

"After the hellhounds."

Crowley's prison? He presumed that was what she meant. After Sam and Dean had him destroy those creatures inside. After she had kissed him. Four years and five months ago. Castiel's brow drew together, evidence of his not understanding. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I… returned to Heaven."

"No. You didn't. But Naomi made sure you remembered it that way."

Time for Castiel seemed to grind to a halt, every sense on high alert. Even as alarm bells sounded in his head, warning him to turn back, it was too late now. Faintly, losing color, he asked, "How do you know about Naomi?"

He dreaded the answer as much as he physically needed it.

In the end, there really was never any choice at all. Because as much as she was terrified by the thought of losing him again, of yet another heartbreak, the thought of hurting him ever again far outweighed any risk that faced her now. In the end, it would be worth it.

Bracing herself for the fallout, Meg told him the truth. She told him everything.

"She's the reason I died."

* * *

_every brick and every stone_   
_of the world we made will come undone_   
_in my sleep I call your name_   
_I need to feel you here with me_   
_let it all fall down to dust_

* * *

NOVEMBER 2009

In fact, it started before any kiss. It started in a ring of fire.

The first time she laid eyes on him, she hated him. And she could tell it was mutual.  _Oh_ , was it mutual.

It didn't even take him casting her into the flames for her to notice. No, it was in his eyes, and scribed over every inch of his face. Those eyes that pierced through her and ruined her in a glance—a cold blue that willed her to dust, to nothingness, and reflected that she was beneath him. It wasn't possible for that haunting, otherworldly shade to belong to his vessel. It had to be his light, his grace bleeding through and making them so vivid. He was stunning, even more so than Lucifer, though she'd never say so. She valued her life, after all, so she played up her veneration of the archangel over the humble Power. The Devil drank it in with his usual soft-spoken, paternal menace, and then left her to her work.

Years from now, Meg would never understand her devotion to the father of her race. But perhaps she'd been looking for a light in the dark, and his was the first to offer her anything remotely akin to hope.

Until Castiel.

The demon regarded her only natural predator, a brutal being built specifically to destroy her. He was the cosmos of the universe and she was the lake of fire, both eternal and deadly in their own right.

That angel wanted her dead. Meg wondered if she could humiliate him, what power over an angel might look like. So she circled him slow, tossing honeyed smiles and vinegar taunts at him through the rolling heat. Tried to get under his skin to see what made him tick. "We're going to heaven, Clarence!"

She savored every emotion to skip over that enigmatic face while she had him trapped at her mercy. Lucifer said this little angel was hers to disfigure, and Meg considered herself privileged. Upon learning her mission, the news had of course delighted her. But now, seeing this angel for the first time, something ancient and long forgotten stirred in her bones.

An ember inside her flickered brighter and, like a moth captivated by the light, she couldn't shake the invisible undertow that had her itching to approach him. Suddenly, she was the one being tempted. He had nowhere to go, snared in the fiery prison her master built, but… even still as a statue, he seemed restless. His eyes never once left her face, riveted to her as she rounded the edge of the fire. The expression he wore was intense, and she could see the wheels turning. While he said very little, distracted almost by the presence that confronted him, Meg could see how he was deconstructing her.

He was hers.

Meg would lay the traps and set the hook. Castiel would spring them, powerless against her, because no one alive had ever rivaled her charm. She was the serpent in the grass, the temptress with the poison kiss. She was venerated,  _feared_ , and Lucifer had chosen  _her_  for this game of seduction.

For centuries, she'd worn that guile crown. She'd be wearing it still when that cloudhopper eventually lost himself to her sinful touch.

But then she was stumbling over the flames, and they were suddenly a breath apart. The tables turned, well-laid plans shuddering off their axis with little fanfare. Coated arms encased her like steel and drew her deceptively close, like a lover might. Meg could practically taste that halo surrounding him as he towered over her with solemn menace, the very picture of forbidden fruit, which unwittingly appealed to her in ways not even she thought possible. A new feeling swept over her then at his proximity, and the beast inside her smiled, mistaking it for triumph. She loved a challenge, and he was already snared, noose hanging off his neck for her to take hold of. How delicious it would be to corrupt something so pure. His innocence was like a magnet, and she wanted more.

Meg waited, leaning in. Enticing, maybe even hoping.  _Go on, angel. Just a little stumble._

His eyes had softened at that—after he realized he couldn't smite her, of course. He was looking at her differently, though. Strangely. It was brief, fleeting, but he seemed almost spellbound for the barest breadth of a moment.

She laughed breathlessly up into his face, in awe of him even as she cut him down. "You can't gank demons, can you?" Another laugh and she was leaning into him, all but purring the invitation across his lips. "Well, what _can_  you do, you impotent sap?"

It could have been her imagination, but then he narrowed their distance of his own accord, inching closer, bright eyes drinking her in. Meg's lips began to curl into a wicked smile.

Until everything about him darkened _—"I can do this."—_ and she was falling into the flames, her own screams filling the deserted room as he stepped over her and…  _left_. Able to do little else but watch in agony as his form disappeared, Meg realized she'd been outwitted— _she_ , a demon. By an  _angel_.

Crawling painfully from the fire licking at her stolen body, her pride in shambles, Meg vowed to rip out those pretty wings herself.

Oh, but she'd fallen into more than just flame that day. She'd fallen head over heels.

* * *

_big blue eyes_   
_what does he want from me?_   
_wishing on the stars, wonder what you are_   
_I just don't know, he's beautiful_   
_maybe he shines a little more than me_   
_up in flames we go, you fire breather_

* * *

JULY 2010

How far from grace had he fallen since that day?

As the new war began in Heaven, Castiel's attentions should have been solely focused on commanding his army. Defeating Raphael. Grudgingly, he reminded himself that this was a compulsory means to an end for that very cause. No different than any other unsavory choice he'd found his hands stained with in the name of freedom.

The end, of course, was victory against his enemies. The means: finding and interrogating monsters whom could pave a path directly to Purgatory.

He tried to ignore the whisper at the back of his thoughts. The voice of Sam, his friend, praying to him from far away. Castiel  _felt_  far away. He was mired on his own personal island, with oceans standing between him and reason. The angel ignored the prayers, because it was all he could do. Something was wrong— _very wrong_ —with Sam Winchester. Castiel had an inkling suspicion of what it might be, but the thought repelled him.

He had to discover the cause of it all. He knew already of course, deep down, but his pride swore that it couldn't possibly be  _that_. He had so many sins piling up against him, yet no time to right them all—which was precisely the reason he'd landed where he was now.

The alpha vampire was paramount, Crowley said. Thus far, Samuel Campbell and his family of hunters had little to no fortune in tracking it, and so they'd focused their resources elsewhere. For how long, Castiel wasn't sure. So here he was, tearing up the supernatural underworld:  _monster hunting_. Pursuing vampires through the sewage and muck, in search of their maker. Despicable.

When the first rushed him, fangs bared in a foaming snarl, Castiel knocked it aside into a load-bearing wall. The brick and mortar blew apart on impact, and the ceiling gave a shuddering groan overhead. Dust and filth showered down in a choking mist as the others swarmed, lending credibility to the notion that they had no idea what he was.

_Wrath bringer._

Castiel's expression fell in a moue of disgust as he slammed his palm onto one forehead after another, summoning his power and unleashing that wrath without heart.

Harsh bursts of blinding light filled the decrepit room, vanquishing shadows, while tan coattails sliced through the air like the beating of wings. Bones and cartilage shattered under each punishing touch, the vampire death cries filling his vessel's ears and echoing down the building's halls. Castiel required only one for his purposes. The remainder of the nest was little more than a loose end to be dealt with, and a source of venting his frustrations.

A bloody scream erupted from the nearest next, silenced by the arc of steel that tore through its vocal chords as the angel called upon his blade. It was plunged through a handful more of undead hearts, renting the head from one body completely in a gory spectacle. The pieces crumpled at Castiel's feet as he crossed over them, his sights leveled on the sole survivor.

The vampire gaped in staunch horror as its entire nest was brutally slaughtered in mere moments. It scrambled backwards in a panic then at the awful sight coming towards him. "The fuck  _are_  you?!"

" _Tired_ ," Castiel replied dangerously. His voice scraped like sandpaper over gravel, abrasive and holding a clear threat. In his hand, the angel blade was poised to strike, hungry for the spill of more blood. He desired for this impediment to be over, so beneath him it was. "Where is your master?"

The vampire was rattled by the question, and perhaps even more afraid than before. "W—what? He'll  _destroy_  me if I tell you anything!"

Castiel pursued the creature as it backpedaled, his patience terminating and his tone falling almost sinister. "He won't have the chance." The vampire balked under the true menace staring him down. Even as dead eyes glinted fierce and fangs bared in a cornered snarl, it knew fear. The room itself seemed to darken around them as the angel towered over his inferior. "You're wasting my time, leech. Time I don't have. So you will die quickly, or you will die slowly— _decide_."

Any reply was cut short as the sound of heels clacking against the rotted wood floor carried from behind Castiel's back. The unexpected intrusion provoked his already blistering temper, and so he turned his head to level a brimstone glare at the lithe form that slipped into view, much like how a snake might slither from the grass.

The demon woman from the ring of fire.

_Meg_.

An electric current ricocheted down his spine at the sight of her, and Castiel considered several expletives he could utter, but discarded them all as unworthy. Danger and something else stirred just behind his ribs, not unlike the reaction he felt upon their first meeting.

" _You_."

Meg tsked her tongue, shaking her head in grisly appreciation of the picture set in front of her. "My, my," she said. Her usual get-up adorned her small stature, hair spilling over a leather-clad shoulder in a tangle of dark curls. To complete the ensemble, she wore a shit-eating expression that seemed designed to burrow under his skin. "A fine mess  _you've_  made, cloudhopper." The demon stepped over the bodies, heedless of any danger, and offered Castiel a lopsided smile that was too disarming to be genuine. She pointed at the cowering vampire. "I need that one alive."

Without taking his eyes off of her, the angel lashed out with his blade, burying it back into the monster's heart and killing it just to spite her. His expression silently dared her to challenge him for it.

Meg's smile fell. "Well, now that was shitty."

Castiel removed the blade with a sickening squelch, and the body crumpled at his feet to the floor. He ignored her baleful stare, a thousand ways suspicious of her sudden appearance, and asked, "What do you want with a vampire?"

"Gosh, you know? I guess I just really loved  _Twilight_." At his predictable non-reaction, Meg arched a single eyebrow pointedly. "Could ask you the same."

"I asked you first."

The demon laughed, despite that his dispassion to her was as maddening as she remembered. "Are all angels giant five year olds, or is that exclusive to you?"

Castiel's expression was grave, cold features showing annoyance at the inconvenience of her presence. "I existed before time itself was formed from the abyss,  _demon_."

"Someone's a little full of himself." Meg canted her head, unable to mask her curiosity. Dark eyes combed boldly over him, in a manner that was somewhat unsettling. "You still shooting blanks, Clarence?"

His brow quirked at that, dark head angling slightly to the side as though he didn't quite follow. But he surprised her then. "If you're implying whether I'm still unable to smite you…" There was a flutter of wings and a short burst of wind, and suddenly he was directly in front of her. "The limitations I had then no longer afflict me now. I  _could_ , if I saw fit, lay you to waste here and now." Blue eyes seared over her in threat, so close she could see the supernal flecks of grace simmering beneath their stormy surface. His voice became soft with menace. "There would be no returning to the Pit, no more of your precious hellfire. Only death."

The angel was a breath from destroying her, that much was clear. For a second, Meg felt the buzz of fear graze down her spine. It passed quickly, even as his heated words seared into her skin as keenly as a circle of flames once had. "Speaking of fire…" she began. Without further preamble, the demon reached down to lift up her shirt, exposing her stomach. Her voice became a velvet threat. "Take a look at what you did to me, you angelic prick. You're lucky I don't light you up like a Roman candle for the trouble."

Castiel's attention fell from her face to the scars. Something inscrutable flickered behind his gaze before those eyes climbed slowly back to hers.

Meg remembered lying in the fire for those few seconds, still not quite sure what had happened. One minute she'd been in his arms, the next she'd been on the floor, burning. She'd put the fire out and rolled onto her back, furious and feeling where he'd stepped on her to escape. Despite her anger, she couldn't help but laugh.

He was something new. Different. Not quite pure, but not down to her level, either. She wondered how much convincing it'd take to get him to stoop a little lower. It wasn't even the remnants of her original mission—orders to drag him through the brimstone and mud with her. Lucifer was halo deep in the Cage, after all. It was much different than that. She hated him, sure, and yet thrilled at whatever torment she could bring him, perversely proud for it. But, more than that… Meg also recognized a golden opportunity when she saw one. And she was nothing if not a survivor.

What did she have to lose?

If she could survive the Winchesters, she could survive anything.

"You know," she murmured, eyes combing down his form to rest on the angel blade he held. Just like before, if this wasn't him threatening her, it could have been the lead in to something else. Brazen and filled with a sudden overwhelming desire for him, Meg reached up to straighten the folds of his lapel, which had become rumpled in the earlier fight. "I thought I'd nearly had you for a minute there."

Him pulling her body right up against his, so close her eyes couldn't focus, talking so she hung off his every word? Had he not flung her into the fire, she'd have called it seduction. Maybe she would anyway.

Meg recalled the pain of it, the wounds resisting her attempts to heal them. The holy fire had left burns far too deep, and Lucifer had refused to heal her because she failed to keep Castiel contained. He'd wanted more time to work on this angel, and her task—much like she, herself—had gone up in flames. Retaining the scars was punishment. Bizarrely, she'd grown almost fond of them.

Castiel stared down his nose at her, unruffled. Much like before, his presence was distracting. Charged. "I'm curious why you didn't simply take a new host and leave the woman inside to deal with it."

Meg needed more of that daredevil thrill that being in close proximity to this angel brought her. Like a brush with death, unsafe and unlike anything else she'd ever felt. She could get drunk on it. "What sort of monster do you take me for, Castiel?" Her smile was tight, mocking him while still a remaining a challenge. The angel remained unimpressed with her ironic humor. Meg didn't care one way or the other, but she was determined to get a rise out of him. "Good hosts are hard to find, but you know that already, don't you? Besides… you sure seemed to like this one." She cocked a hip, squaring her shoulders in a manner that accentuated her body's finest features.

That got his attention, for all the wrong reasons of course. Castiel looked almost mystified by the postulation, brow slanting in stern bewilderment. "Your host I'm indifferent towards, and you are the thing I was created to destroy. In what ways does that indicate favor to you?"

"You sure are a grumpy little shit," she remarked, seeming to simper in the face of his denial. The demon was too high on her own arrogance to be offended anyways, and she rolled her eyes at his stony silence. "I know you haven't killed me yet because you just can't help but be curious. The hell's a demon want with a fang, right?"

That was part of the reason for his curiosity, yes. The other part was somewhat more… opaque. Something he couldn't pin down. He'd felt regret, casting her into those flames. Something he should never have felt in dealing with the likes of her, this demon. Even now, it wasn't just the potential for information that was staying his hand from killing her. It was frustrating—could almost infuriate him, if he let it. Castiel's expression, despite his running thoughts, nonetheless betrayed nothing except that he was waiting for her to go on.

"I'm after Crowley."

His eyes narrowed sharply. "Crowley?"

Meg saw the reaction there, but assumed it a natural response to hearing the King of Hell's name uttered aloud. After all, she wasn't the only thing in Creation who despised the smarmy dick. "Let's just say I have a little vendetta against the pantywaist. Pretty sure he's gunning for me, too. Long story less boring: I got wind from some shifter that he was torturing monsters."

Something unpleasant churned in his gut, and Castiel shifted restlessly. He summoned a look of uncertainty and shook his head. "Torturing monsters? Why would he do that?"

"Don't have the foggiest. Apparently boredom comes with the throne." Meg dropped her lighthearted attitude. "What do you think I was trying to find out before you fucking kabobbed my only lead?" The snapping reminder was sharp in the empty room, her aloof demeanor now becoming indignant. "While we're on the subject, what the hell's an angel doing smiting vampires? Aren't they a little below your pay grade?" Her smile was cold in the face of his glare. "Or are you and the rest of the winged fairies just as bored out of your skull as the King of Hell, now that the war's over?"

"The war isn't over," Castiel retorted. It was  _never_  over—a despicable truth he was becoming all too aware of. "And these vampires were killing humans. I stopped them."

It wasn't necessarily a lie. Surely they were feeding on humans, killing several in the process, but that of course was not why he was after them. In any case, what he did was no business of hers.

"What, so… avenging angel vigilante? That's cute. What about the wonder twins? Thought this was their department?"

Castiel was becoming agitated. Expression fierce, he cut his eyes back to her in anger. "They're  _occupied_. And none of your concern."

Meg raised her hands in a grudging gesture of peace. "Stow the wrath, would you? Believe me, I  _don't_  give a shit about those two. But I do have a proposal."

"A proposal," he parroted, instantly suspicious.

"You're so bored out of your skull, you're hunting vampires. You hate Crowley, I hate Crowley. Ever heard of 'I scratch your back, you scratch mine'?"

"I'm not scratching your back."

Meg's smile was less cutting than usual, even approaching sincere. "It's a metaphor, you precious twit. You want monsters to snuff out, I can point you in the direction of some." She brushed past him, bumping his shoulder with hers and tossing a look of shrewd affection back at him. "Scouring the underbelly is so much easier when you're pals with a bellycrawler, wouldn't you say?"

Had he heard her correctly? She couldn't possibly be suggesting what he thought she was suggesting.

Castiel's features screwed up in disbelief as he swung around to look at her. "You want us to  _work_  together?"

He looked appalled, but the demon wasn't joking this time. Meg looked him dead in the eye, prepared for the rain of fire in the event this little parlay went south. "Right now I'm stuck in an army of one situation. It sucks. Back up would be nice. You be my muscle, I'll feed you monsters. Deal?"

"That is… absurd." Even as he said it, that forceful look in his eyes was fading into questioning curiosity.

"Good, so we agree. Shall we shake on it, or seal it with a kiss?"

At the mirth dancing in her dark eyes, Castiel was grim. "I did not agree to anything."

Meg would've had to be blind to miss the heated look he smothered with a mask of indifference. Well, then. Scarlet lips pulled apart in a sly twist like some bad omen. "You didn't shoot me down, either. I'll take what I can get."

Castiel deliberated. He could use the assistance. He could  _not_  keep hunting monsters, couldn't keep unearthing their locations on his own time. He had a war to fight. A war to  _win_. With this demon in their corner, however unwittingly… he could feed whatever information she gave him to Crowley. Crowley could give that information to Samuel Campbell. It would expedite things, and he could concentrate his efforts back on Heaven.

Still… the idea left him ill at heart. Yet another thing he couldn't allow himself to care about. "Yes, fine," he agreed at last, as though uttering the words had him choking on shards of glass. "We'll ally, for now. As a temporary solution."

Meg's cheeks dimpled with the force of her grin. "Now that's a heavenly choir to my ears." She extended her hand for him to take. "This is gonna be fun, Clarence. We're going to have a hell of a time."

Her spirited laugh did something to him. And, if Castiel hadn't been regretting his decision before, he sure as hell was now. He eyed the offering warily, a few more death threats hanging on the tip of his tongue. But… eventually, the blade vanished from his hand, and he reached out to grasp hers in the makings of an unsteady pact.

The demon's skin was cool to the touch, softer than he might have imagined, and very unlike the brush with hellfire he'd been expecting. Perhaps it was a guise. He couldn't be sure. Everything about her was a cunning mystery, a puzzle he couldn't solve, and he should have harbored zero inclination towards her to begin with.

_Don't trust her, don't trust her. Just another means to an end._

But from the moment they touched, it was a sealing of fate. One of Castiel's greatest weaknesses after all had been seeing beauty in even the most shadowed of places. And Meg… she always had favored the stars over what lay below them.

"Hmm." The quiet murmur snared the angel out of his thoughts and, when his eyes refocused, Meg was considering him thoughtfully. The curve of her lips was measured and careful, delight at his discomfort prominent in her eyes. "Here, I'd have thought you'd pitch a holy bitch fit at the idea of working with a demon. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Was that guilt that skirted across the blue gaze pinning her down? She barely had time to think on it because, in the next second, there was a flutter of wings and he was gone.

No. The demon Meg was not the first he had partnered with, although he did hope her to be the last. Privately, Castiel recoiled at the dark reminder, needing desperately to get his mind on other things.

Working with demons, ignoring his friends, declaring war on Heaven? He truly was deplorable.

This would not end well at all. But it would end.

Everything did.

* * *

_got caught for what I did, laid to rest all my confessions_   
_now I'm back again and versed in so much worse_   
_I'm sitting on a throne while they're buried in the dirt_   
_yes, I've been told I redefine a sin_

* * *

OCTOBER 2010

They were both designed for the battlefield, for war, but there were times when Meg couldn't help but wonder if maybe they were meant to tear down the world together.

Over the next several weeks, their interactions were kept sparse and mostly over the phone to avoid actual proximity, but those rare moments afforded insight into something she couldn't quite put a name to. Maybe she didn't  _want_  to put a name to it. To do so at all would acknowledge that there was something inconceivable to be seen there.

In the back of her mind, she imagined Lucifer proud. By all appearances, she was carrying on with her mission. Leading Castiel astray, paving the path of the unrighteous for him. But as often as the demon speculated over whether they were two unlikely peas in a pod, she wondered if maybe Castiel wasn't the one leading her astray all along.

Meg was true to her word. Though they seldom conversed, she at least was consistent. She handed over monsters, and Castiel relayed their whereabouts to Crowley. He never actually told the King of Hell where he was gleaning this information from of course, and it didn't seem to matter. Results were results, and he  _was_  an angel, after all. No one ever suspected his motives.

Then came the day when Castiel was expected to fulfill his end of the arrangement with Meg. She hadn't even used the phone. Out of nowhere, the demon's voice was in his head, praying for him to come. Castiel didn't even consider the utter blasphemy of it all because he was too distracted by that smoky drawl, tinged with adrenaline, demanding he get his ass to where she was and start raining down fire.

As if he was her personal  _hammer_.

Annoyed and vexed about the whole ordeal, the angel had nonetheless ported himself to her side, finding her already in a losing battle. While the objectionable summons did get him out of having to answer more of Sam and Dean's questions, or having to wonder over where Balthazar had disappeared to with the stolen weapons, Castiel was still inundated with errant reminders of just how perverse her presumption was that he would come for her.

The angel arrived with a burst of wind and power, hitting the earth hard enough so that it shook. He grabbed the first enemy around the neck and tore it off of her, hurling it aside as an afterthought before his blade came slamming up into the next one's sternum. Its fiery scream rang loud as it died.

Castiel grappled with another, its attacks doing nothing to stun or thwart him. At the edge of his vision, he saw Meg get to her feet, immediately tearing into the first thing she could get her hands on.

She was fast. More agile than any other demon he'd seen in a fight. She fought as though caged all her life, like there was something trying to get out of her. It was almost mesmerizing to watch.

While Meg was a soldier bred from chaos and fire, eons of training and discipline kept Castiel far more controlled. She took more delight in drawing out the kill, whereas the angel focused on getting it done quickly and cleanly. Still… there was a certain undercurrent of brutality there that was as riveting as it was ominous. Each blade strike, each violent outpouring of grace by bare hand, became more vicious than the last. Meg fed off that aggression, reveling in it as the sight only stimulated her own.

She was deadly while alone, but together they were an unstoppable force that afforded their prey no chance of escape.

For the first time, demon and angel fought back to back instead of blade to blade. Their coaction was too perfect, their rivalry too compatible. It was disconcerting to Castiel how their strategies so easily aligned, like stars and planets ought to and ought not. They slashed and tore at enemies like they were made for it.  _Designed_  to work as a single force instead of on opposing sides. He attacked from above, she from below. They were death and judgment forged as one, too focused on the instinct that brought them together to consider how contrary it was.

Light and darkness. Serenity and rage. Order and chaos.

United, they were an angular shape of powers, completely complementary and characterized by sharp turns and alternating directions as with magnetism. Castiel went right, Meg went left.

Together, angel and demon met in the center.

As they executed their last enemy in tandem, they whirled on each other, weapons primed in the heat of battle. Meg tempered almost right away, but Castiel took longer. His control balanced on a tenuous line, having taken a moment to savor the aberrant hunger and raw satisfaction in the kill. She would have been morbidly impressed if it weren't for the fact that the hand not holding his blade against her heart was hovering over her forehead. Power thrummed at the point of contact, and though he was otherwise inexpressive, the light of his grace burned through him still, mirrored in eyes that were devoid of mercy.

Meg didn't shrink away, although she did relax a great deal when that fierceness he displayed abruptly abated. Castiel lowered his hand and weapon, but that cold exterior remained. Turning, he offered the smoldering corpses at their feet a cursory onceover, refusing to meet the eyes of the demon still alive.

Trying to appear unaffected by her brush with death, Meg let out a low whistle and glanced around too. "Goddamn, angel. Can't say I don't enjoy having you perched on my shoulder."

Castiel rounded on her, virulent and pissy. "Don't pray to me. Use your phone if you require help."

The demon bristled at his tone. "Cut the attitude,  _Bitchtiel_. You might recall my hands were a little too busy tearing apart my fellow demons to shoot you a text."

"My  _attitude_ , as you call it, is unassailable given the circumstances. So keep your complaints to yourself, they mean nothing to me."

Meg had a witty retort ready on her tongue, but in the time it took her to blink, he was gone. Who the hell stuck  _his_  halo in a blender? The demon ground her teeth, eyes rolling heavenward and hoping he could hear her.

"Fucking angels," she muttered.

* * *

_put your hand out to me_   
_I'm the one who's going to make you burn_   
_I'm going to take you down, down, down_   
_like evil, I get under your skin_   
_just a bomb that's ready to blow_

* * *

Forming an alliance had done nothing to lessen the animosity they harbored towards each other, at least not at first. They were architects of death, designed and bred by higher powers than themselves to kill the other, and that instinct was deeply ingrained. Somehow though, their paths had ended up entangled. Somehow, they laid down their weapons against each other in favor of common interest. Neither realized at first just how much vice and triumph lived and died together. Still, even in spite of that truce, angel and demon strove as enemies should. Among the lines and building tactics—staying on their guard, should the other inevitably betray them.

It was the wise thing to do, but more often than he would ever admit it, including under torture, Castiel found his thoughts drifting to the woman with the stygian eyes. She was a burning eddy of determination, he would grant her that. As much as they fought each other, there were undertones of respect and admiration he couldn't shed. Those feelings constantly betrayed him, conflicted him.

Still, there were times when he wanted to go right, and the demon was trying to go left. Eventually, if he was set on her help, Castiel would simply tow her along with him using the influence of his power, at least until her own flared up and she was clawing at his grace and cursing him out. Demons, as it happened, didn't appreciate being hauled around like toys. Castiel ignored it most of the time, but there was no stopping the almost smug satisfaction he felt at being the one to rankle her for once.

For Meg, the sentiment was similar. The angel was fucking fascinating, in every way that mattered and didn't. Sometimes though, she just wanted to dig her nails in and  _tear_. Punish him for being what he was, dirty him up a little until he was more like her.

One day, she would despair at the thought of him becoming what she was, but that day was far away. Intangible to her now and nestled deep in a future that would tear them apart in ways unspeakable.

Still, even now… she looked at him and saw things she shouldn't. Entertained thoughts she had no business with—thoughts so beyond even the outline of her original mission it was absurd. She was a creature of darkness, ruled by discord, and a thing to be feared. Cold were her emotions, what little there were of them, driven by an abysmal ruthlessness that constantly ached to spring forth and be released. But… perhaps there were other things inside her too, longing to break free from that frigid cage.

* * *

_I don't know who I am_   
_but now I know who I'm not_   
_I'm just a curious speck that got caught up in orbit_   
_like a magnet it beckoned my metals toward it_

* * *

Castiel stared balefully at her from inside the trap. "What is this?" he demanded. His voice was strident even while pitched so low, and it nearly shook the building's supports.

Meg stood at a safe distance from outside the ring of holy fire that bound him, flanked by two other demons. "Take a guess, sweetness." At his angry silence, she elaborated. "Trading an angel for my freedom? All the cool kids are doing it. Quite the notorious little dickens, too. Life sure is kismet." The force of her grin was enough to dimple her cheeks, and beside her the others laughed.

Sinister fury boiled within him. Those demons were undoubtedly Crowley's—foot soldiers who knew nothing of his deal with the King of Hell, or that Crowley would kill and eviscerate them for the infraction. But Castiel cared little that he was going to survive this. He cared only that he was going to wipe that abomination with the pretty smile off the face of the earth once he got out of this trap.

Just as he was planning in detail exactly how he was going to rid himself of her permanently, the two unfamiliar demons arched forwards with nearly identical screams. Wooden stakes protruded from their chests, the wound sites festering with smoke. They appeared unable to move, despite their centralized thrashing. Meg circled around in front of them, eyes slicked black, her smile gone in favor of the piercing cold stare she wore now.

"Maybe it's that I've always preferred working alone," she mused. Her voice was clipped and rougher around the edges than normal, entire demeanor shifting completely. "Maybe it's because I just don't play well with others." Meg shook her head, darkly contemplative and unsympathetic towards their bellows of pain. "But demons can be really fucking stupid." Her gaze slid to Castiel as the rolling flames performed haunting shadowplay over their faces. It swallowed all other light in their eyes, leaving the balance between them still too opaque. She read the stern traces of confusion in his expression, blue eyes gone almost black as they transferred from her to the trapped demons. "Palo Santos," Meg enlightened him, and immediate recognition showed on his face.

Wooden, hybridized versions of salt and holy water. When used, it could pin a demon to a single spot, immobilizing them long enough to perform an exorcism when there was no time for devil's traps. The fact that she'd been wearing gloves hadn't even occurred to him at the time.

"A double cross?" Castiel surmised, realizing now.

"Trap was never for you, treetopper," confirmed the demon he knew, apparently satisfied with the way his ferocious expression began to wane. "So how about you toss me that pretty blade of yours, so I can finish off these sorry sacks of meat?"

"Let me out, and I will deal with them myself."

"So bossy. Don't you trust me with your weapon?" Meg smiled in the face of his lingering glower, her lips curling just barely as she approached the circle of flames. His stony silence was answer enough, but served only to further her amusement. It was thrilling, being superior to him for once—having him at her mercy again like this. The demon regarded the flames at their feet, her gaze slowly crawling up to find his.

A thousand unspoken words swam in the surface of that iniquitous stare, and the angel knew that if he tried to decode them, he doubtlessly would not like what he found there. Worse, and perhaps most disconcerting of all… he might just enjoy it.

"Bring back memories, Castiel?" Meg regarded him rakishly from beneath smoky lashes. Her voice was sultry and low, honeyed to the point where his distrust flared back to the forefront of his charged thoughts. But then she snapped her fingers, and the flames extinguished.

Wasting no time, he ported himself behind her and immediately did away with the two demons, their vocalized threats dying away to screams and then silence, just as swiftly as the fire had. When Meg turned around, Castiel was directly in front of her, a looming threat.

"Never use me like that again."

To her credit, Meg didn't recoil from him. She stared evenly back, unmoving and unafraid. "You're not exactly a liar by trade, Columbo. I wasn't sure I could count on you to play along." She took a step closer, close enough so that her nose almost brushed his chin. "And I'll do with you as I please."

She could see how much he fought the instinct to shy back from her proximity, righteous and cross all at once sas only Castiel could ever quite manage. To do so would be a sign of weakness on his part, of backing down. Figuring she was already ahead in numbers because of the fire trap, Meg let him off the hook and casually eased back, glancing over his shoulder at the smoking husks he'd left of the demons.

"Our beloved King might realize I have an angel in my pocket if he sees his little pissants looking all smote and bothered like this. Pissants he sent after  _me_?"

"Then dispose of the bodies," Castiel retorted flatly.

Meg lifted an eyebrow at the dismissal. "You made the mess, handsome. You deal with it. I offered to kill them myself, remember?"

Castiel looked away with a churlish sigh. " _Faboan vithmong_ ," he muttered, almost to himself. The delivery was more cranky now than murderous, but there was still real venom to the Enochian slur.

Meg just smirked broadly at him, never one to back down from a pissing match. " _Sui iustus rhetor_."

Now he looked like he wanted to kill her again.

It was a whole new level of ingenuity to their derisive feuds. The angel did that often—slipped into his mother tongue when particularly vexed about something. Especially when directing his frustrations at her. Nevertheless, Castiel was just as fluent in Latin as he was any other language, which meant he always knew  _exactly_  what she was saying about him. Contrarily, Meg rarely understood whatever the hell he was saying about  _her_ , other than it wasn't good. This meant that she could find amusement in his need to resort to what he was comfortable with, all the while remaining oblivious herself. The old fogey was completely alien to this world, she sometimes forgot.

In moments such as these, Castiel was left staring after her with even more contempt and frustration than when they'd started. It didn't help that Meg didn't really speak English to start with. She spoke references, sarcasm, and anger. At least when she spoke another language, he could understand what she was saying. Even if he didn't like it.

Just another game she could beat him at, as far as she was concerned. Without another word, Meg trotted off, leaving him to deal with the aftermath of her deception. She didn't know that Castiel needed the evidence gone just as much as she did. If he didn't do away with the bodies, she'd be dealing with a trail that Crowley could follow straight to her. But, somehow inherently, she trusted Castiel to do her bidding.  _Expected_  him to, as though it were commonplace.

The angel tried to puzzle out whether he would have, even without any benefit to himself. What disturbed him most was that… he didn't know.

* * *

_I can see right through all your empty lies_   
_trembling, crawling across my skin_   
_feel your cold dead eyes, stealing the life of mine_   
_easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right_

* * *

He hadn't killed her in that ring of fire.

He could have killed her.  _Should_  have killed her. What had stopped him?

Almost a year later, and Castiel still had no answer.

They were two paths, diverging from a given course. Different in every way that mattered, yet so similar it was unsettling. He was unproven at reading cues and facial nuances, but sometimes he could swear the demon looked just as worn and disillusioned as he felt most days. Sometimes her smile was brittle and her smoke flickered. Had he killed her then, he might never have seen it.

A foreign, inborn feeling buried deep beneath the animosity he felt towards her almost ached to reach out to her. The experience was often fleeting, but impossible to ignore. Castiel resisted that urge, but it drove him mad all the same.

Things were generally hot and cold with the demon. With… Meg.

Proximity to her of any kind was confusing, no matter his mood. Whether they were one smart retort or sanctimonious accusation away from killing each other, or neck deep in battle together, there was always that underlying and strange energy. Meg figured it was the angel and demon thing, side effects of being mortal enemies, and all that noise. Castiel would blame her demonic nature, always setting him on edge—whether innately or deliberately.

Both of them were right, of course. But both of them were also very wrong.

* * *

_our backs against the wall_   
_we're surrounded and afraid_   
_our lives now in the hands_   
_of the soldiers taking aim_

* * *

The demon liked to sing.

It hadn't taken him terribly long to notice the habit, peculiar as it was. Particularly now, as he appeared before her. "Hello, Meg."

It was strange to call her that. It wasn't really her name.

" _If you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall_ …" She glanced over her shoulder at him, wearing a sly smirk that was too confident and too bored all at once, then trilled off some more notes. " _Tell_   _'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call_."

Castiel's stare was blank and disapproving. "I thought I told you not to pray to me."

"Did you?" she wondered innocently.

He sighed, too weary to argue. "What do you want?"

Meg held up a slip of paper, wiggling it at him. When Castiel reached for it, she snatched it back away, earning a  _look_. "Where have you been? Haven't heard from you in almost a week. Been lonely."

"Fighting a war," he retorted.

Over a dozen of his siblings had died in the last few days, and Castiel was almost completely void of any morale. He was tired, browbeaten, and the demon was already irritating him.

Meg ignored his tone, flicking the paper at him. "Might have a lead on that shifter you were looking for. Have fun, save me some entrails."

Castiel caught the note, scanning over it momentarily before his surly expression and upwards glance signified that he was about to disappear again.

"Hey, boy wonder. Don't I get a thank you?"

The angel looked put out by her keeping him, his expression suggesting she not extend this meeting any further than it already had gone. "You presume you're entitled to one?" It wasn't quite an insult, but at her expectant glare, Castiel narrowed his eyes. "When have you ever expressed gratitude towards me?"

"Would you like me to, Clarence?"

Even to him, the words were positively dripping with invitation. The angel fixed her with a hooded look, deigning to withhold any reply. The appropriate move it seemed, because Meg only chuckled and shook her head at him.

"Bye then, feathers." She angled her sharp chin in farewell. " _Just remember what the dormouse said_."

His forehead wrinkled at that. "What—" he started to say, but in a reverse riposte, she was suddenly the one gone from sight. Disgruntled, Castiel felt a sensation not unlike having a rug tugged out from under him. "Demons," he growled.

Still… in spite of how she endlessly frustrated him, some secret corner of the angel's mind could admit and appreciate that the abomination he loathed did possess a lovely singing voice.

* * *

_say goodbye_   
_as we dance with the devil tonight_   
_don't you dare look at him in the eye_   
_I won't last long, in this world so wrong_

* * *

The gray stone walls, reminiscent of a dungeon, were ridden with displays of torture devices old and new, all in varying conditions. The environment was dank and dark, positively dripping with a foulness both literal and metaphysical. Screams carried dimly from somewhere deep in the prison, only adding to that rotten atmosphere.

Humming to himself behind his desk, Crowley paged through his very thick binder of soul deals, curious on whose he'd be collecting on in the near future. He reached for his glass of whiskey, but started slightly when he heard the sound of wind against fabric. As he looked up, he saw that he was no longer alone in his makeshift office. Standing in front of him and looking irritated and sour was the angel in the trenchcoat, and Crowley thought it was about bloody time.

The demon raised his eyebrows and smiled pleasantly, not letting his surprise show. "Ah. Cas, my favorite halo. Was wondering when you'd come." He sat up properly, awaiting the conniption sure to follow.

"What do you mean,  _when I'd come_?" Castiel said gruffly. "There's a war in Heaven. A war you had me  _start_. I've been  _busy_."

"Don't let's play the victim, darling," Crowley said, standing up now and taking his drink with him. He sniffed appreciatively at the rim of the glass, swirling the contents in a manner very languid, and studied the angel thoughtfully. Castiel appeared broken before him; exhausted, and plain foul-tempered. "You desperately need to get laid."

"What do you want, Crowley?" asked Castiel with dark impatience. "I don't have all day."

Crowley hesitated, a sudden thought occurring to him. He looked at his companion closely, gauging for a reaction. "Do you not know how long it's been, since last we spoke in person?" Castiel's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and Crowley sighed. "Five months," he said, and watched as sheer confusion, then realization, and then something like dread flashed across the angel's face. All within the spans of a few seconds. Castiel then tried to hide it, tried to go back to being stone-faced. Crowley just rolled his eyes and sighed again. "Yes, go ahead and  _pretend_  you knew that. I like the constipated look you get when you act like you know what you're doing. It's a good thing you're so entertaining, my feathered friend."

Castiel said nothing, just clenched his jaw a bit and brooded. Crowley looked him up and down, reading the signs of fatigue and despondency which Castiel was trying so hard to conceal.

"War must be taking quite the toll, then," said the demon, as though remarking on the color paint of the room.

The angel was perturbed and troubled in equal parts. "Time works differently in Heaven. It's not constant or stable like it is on earth." It wasn't quite a falsehood—he  _had_  lost track of time. But he was also more focused on the Winchesters, on his…  _other_  alliance, than he was towards his partnership with the King of Hell. "To me, only a few weeks have passed. It feels much longer."

"Sad story," Crowley retorted sarcastically. "Where  _did_  I put my tiny violin?" At the confused expression on the angel's face, he rolled his eyes. "Never mind. Point is, you need to hurry it up, bucko."

Temper flaring at the unfriendly dig, Castiel bristled. " _I_  need to 'hurry it up'?" His expression was filled with sudden, righteously indignant fury. "As I recall, this entire war is contingent upon  _you_  finding Purgatory."

Crowley adopted a humble pause, although his lips pursed slightly in hooded annoyance. "Well, yes. I suppose there's that."

"How close are you?" Castiel asked, his aggravation not at all abating. "I can't sustain the same pace for long—Raphael is too powerful, and too many of us are dying."

"Keep your pants on, would you?" Crowley leveled the angel with a slightly challenging stare. "I'm going as fast as I can. Would be a hell of a lot faster if you'd pick up the slack on those monsters."

"I give you the locations as I receive them," Castiel said firmly. "I don't have time for both hunting  _and_  the war. That is why you have the Campbells."

"Receive them, eh? And just who do you have in your corner on messenger detail?"

Castiel's eyes were narrowed, his features rigid. " _Myself_ , if it's any of your concern. Other times, it's a loyal angel."

Crowley raised a single dark eyebrow. "Your little God Squad isn't asking questions as to why you're suddenly interested in monsters?"

"They're angels," Castiel muttered, looking away. He was careless of lying to Crowley, but there was a certain bitter aftertaste as he said the words anyway. "They don't ask questions."

The demon tutted, amused and apparently satisfied, but Castiel remained grim.

"What would it take? To expedite your pace?"

Crowley let out an annoyed huff of air. "You can't just streamline these things, mate. More importantly," he went on, voice dropping low, "next time I call you,  _try_  not to drag your feet. We're business partners, and I dislike it when I can't get a hold of you."

Castiel's eyes flicked up to Crowley's, locking. His face was full of baleful contempt. "How unfortunate you feel that way," he all but snapped. "Now give me what's mine."

"Was that  _sarcasm_?" Crowley asked, pleasantly surprised and verging on delighted. He grinned widely, making his eyes crinkle up. He walked around the desk, coming to stand in front of his churlish cohort. "My, my. They grow up so fast."

Castiel was waiting, riled and impatient, and Crowley was annoyed that no one seemed to appreciate his freewheeling sense of humor and comedic timing. He rolled his eyes, supposing he did have to make good on his agreement and that his fun was over. Sighing dramatically, he lifted a hand.

"A couple thousand more souls, my heavenly creampuff."

Crowley touched two fingers to the angel's chest, and a surge of energy siphoned directly into Castiel's grace. He wired his eyes shut against the staggering weight, tensing up. It wasn't as overwhelmingly crushing as when the demon had bestowed the fifty thousand upon him, but it still took a toll. The burst of light that had risen up now gradually faded, and Castiel worked to shake off the disorienting after effects.

"These won't last long."

"I'm aware," he muttered. "It barely lasted long enough the first time."

"Your little dimestore highs will have to do for now. I won't deplete my merchandise much more than I already have. Besides, these little buggers are human. Once we get our hands on those monster souls?" Crowley clucked his tongue, becoming delighted at the thought. "Fuck me sideways, that'll be the trip that never stops giving."

Castiel met his eyes gloomily, but there was an air of satisfaction there too. He looked charged again, abuzz with energy.

"You know, Castiel… we're not so different, you and I."

The angel appeared offended by the very suggestion. "We couldn't be  _further_  from similarity."

Crowley merely offered him a genial smile. "Don't be so certain."

Castiel's expression darkened, becoming grave and almost wrathful. Then, just as he'd appeared without warning—he was gone.

The demon sighed gustily, putting his hands into his pockets. "Kids these days. So rude."

Despite the perpetual surliness, it was rather thrilling to have an angel all but under his thumb. Under his thumb, clueless, and on his way to strong-arming the King of Hell some major soul power. Honestly, Crowley couldn't have planned it more perfectly. The Winchesters were somewhat out of the picture at the moment, at least in concerns to Castiel, and therefore less of a distraction while still a motivating factor.

Thursday's angel: always looking to save  _the boys_.

It was trite and somewhat maudlin, wasn't it? Almost sweet, in a sickening, annoying way. They wouldn't be a problem for months to come. The war in the attic also kept Castiel occupied and less intrusive.

Seamless.

Then there were the Campbells, and Sam.  _Oh, Sam_. Hunting, and hunting  _well_. Getting in some trouble here and there, but making a killing. Quite literally.

Crowley strolled out of his office, feeling good about how things were shaping up so nicely, yet clueless himself on the latest distraction in Castiel's life. A distraction that had somehow cropped up unexpectedly, but with all the gale force of some catastrophic tempest.

Either way, Castiel had so much further to fall.

* * *

_come with me now_ **  
**I'm going to take you down ****  
come with me now  
 _I'll show you how_

* * *

"How did you find me?"

Well, what a nasty greeting. The angel's immediate demand upon her arrival was scathing, to the point where it was just shy of a physical attack. Here she was playing Santa, and he was biting the hand bearing gifts.

"I followed the trail of stuffy self-righteousness," Meg answered sunnily, before that cheeriness abruptly dropped. "You're distracted and sloppy, Castiel. Any two-bit hack could have found you right now."

The angel latched onto one word she'd used in particular, his expression foul. "Perhaps I'm distracted because I am fighting a  _war_ , which everyone seems to  _forget_."

_I've been on red alert about Sam, and you come for some stupid horn?!_  Dean's voice rang in his head, tarnished with accusation and contempt. Castiel fumed even as he was inwardly wracked with turmoil, and he closed in on the nearest fixture he could unload his frustrations on.

"No matter what I do, it's never enough. I could obliterate any one of you with a  _thought_  if it suited me, but do I? I can't  _fathom_  why I haven't."

_You asked me to be here, and I came. I—_

_I've been asking you to be here for days, you dick!_

He had nothing to offer about Sam. God help him, he was just as in the dark as everyone else, despite that he had personally risen the boy himself. Something had gone horribly,  _horribly_  wrong, but didn't anyone see that he was trying to fix what had been done? That he was fighting without cease to keep them all not only safe, but  _alive_?! The world as they knew it was in peril, but all they could see was that he wasn't there to fix every scrape and stubbed toe. He was an errand boy, a convenient outlet for them to beat against because he was Castiel and  _Castiel_  always did what he was told.

The hypocrisy of it all escaping him, he broke away from his timely victim to rave almost to himself, a string of Enochian flying past his lips in frustration. Around demon and angel, the trees swayed under a sudden wind, the sky clouding over with an angry storm cell.

_Enough of this shit._

Meg reached out and shoved against his shoulder, hard. "Hey!  _Focus_."

Castiel rounded on her, livid and unremitting. "Do not touch me, demon. I am more powerful, more  _impressive_ , than any of you specks could ever comprehend, yet what respect am I ever shown? I make it my mission to _protect_  all of you, yet every effort I make is thrown back in my face!" A crack of thunder sounded somewhere in the distance. "Why do I keep coming back? Why do I continue, time and again, to answer  _any_  of your calls? You don't appreciate it, and you certainly don't deserve it!"

Meg only stared at him, her reaction somehow unremarkable in the face of his cataclysmic outburst. "The fuck crawled up  _your_  ass?"

Castiel's impassioned, breathless expression gave way to indignation. " _Excuse_  me?"

"You're even pissier than usual. What the hell gives?"

"My disposition is none of your concern."

Dark eyes were already pulling him apart. "Maybe not, but it becomes my  _problem_  when you're too busy having a tantrum to focus on the job at hand." He was more charged than she'd ever seen him, reminding her of a loose nuke—that, and he was pissing her off. "Also? I don't know who you think you're talking to, but I'm not one of your little Whinechesters. So watch your goddamn  _tone_  with me."

Despite the belittling remarks, some of Castiel's fire ebbed as he grudgingly recognized that she was not the reason for his anger. For the moment, at least. That anger was… misdirected. In lieu of this, the angel felt an almost sheepish sense of regret. He let out a riled breath, all the same. "You couldn't possibly understand the travails I'm faced with, demon."

The reminder was needless, self-serving, and Meg shook her head at him. "Probably not. And I couldn't give a shit one way or the other. Eat a fucking Snickers or something and pull it together."

Her hand slapped against his chest, startling him, and Castiel stared down and caught the note with the next batch of locations. When he looked up, she was gone. Seeming a little disturbed by what had just happened, his face nonetheless remained stoic.

_What happened to you, Cas? You used to be human, or at least like one._

_I'm at war._

The humans had a saying.  _Playing with fire_. Was that what he was doing? Playing with fire and about to be burned? The creeping suspicions he tried to ignore about himself were forever on the edge of his mind, taunting him and shaking his confidence. Perhaps the most difficult thing in all of this was waging the war alone and having no true confidante or supporter. Rachel was the closest thing he possessed to one, he supposed, but she didn't understand him or even fully grasp the reason for the war—she was merely following his leadership, not fighting tooth and nail for free will and choice like he was.

Castiel's thoughts inevitably wandered back to the demon, as they were wont to do these days. Some deep, dark corner of him mind relented that… perhaps Meg was right. Maybe they all were. He didn't feel like himself anymore, which he supposed was a sign of some sort.

More, those thoughts wondered if Meg herself wasn't becoming that anchor he so desperately needed.

* * *

_there's a storm ahead, I see it all around me_   
_I feel it in the air, shake the ground beneath my feet_   
_and I know it's all a part of me_   
_did you make a plan just to watch it crumble?_

* * *

NOVEMBER 2010

He bore injuries from a previous battle already when they were both ambushed. Hound messengers sent for her, Meg thought fiercely. Somehow, Crowley had found her.

She registered the sight of grotesque fur and rotting limbs, tracking the large beasts with her eyes. Hellish mutations, just like her. As she fought one, Castiel was already intercepting another that pounced for her, using the thing's momentum against it. He drove the hellhound into the concrete with a thundering slam of mutilated flesh, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws. Gripping it around the jaw, he snapped its neck, renting bones from ligaments. Two more he finished off like this, another with a blinding flash of grace.

Meg sliced at the air with her weapon as a set of jaws clamped down on her shoulder. She twisted away, kicking out with her legs against razor-edged teeth. The smell of ozone and rainfall permeated her senses then, a blur of tan the only thing she saw before the hound gave a startled yelp and was ripped away.

Light poured from the angel's hands unchecked, the reason behind the overpowering sensation of him that nearly smothered her. Determination had painted a stark mask on his face, despite that he was still hurting from whatever angelic ass-kicking he'd taken hours before.

* * *

_It went off like a nuclear explosion across the celestial battlefields, leaving utter death and destruction in its wake. Joshua's Horn sounded across the ethereal plane and rendered all the angels in close proximity to dust as their cells scattered and blew apart. The angel, Balam, was one of Raphael's most loyal and stood high and proud as he watched the enemy fall around him. The heavenly weapon glinted treacherously in his hand._

_A second legion of Castiel's forces had been close to Balam, but not close enough to be killed instantly by the sounding of the horn. Instead, the eleven angels were viciously blasted away in all directions at its use. Castiel was among these angels._

_As paradise was ripped asunder, he felt himself tearing backwards through varying heavens from the force of the devastating attack, even as his vessel exploded with pain. Every atom shivered and buckled, threatening to dissolve and give out completely. He collided with something that cracked and then shattered—falling face down into the grass._

_Castiel laid there trembling, every part of him hurting profusely as his grace began the daunting task of repairing his vessel. The angelic weapon had done vast damage, and he felt it. He tasted blood and his ears ran with it, making sounds muffled and strange to him. Balam could not be allowed to keep that weapon, or the war would be over for the worse._

_Castiel dragged himself up, heaving with effort as he stood unevenly. He took a staggering step forward, testing out his own durability. Unfortunately, he'd have to wait for his body to restore itself before he could attempt another attack. Sinking back to his knees, he took a moment to regain his breath._

_Shortly after, Castiel ported himself to his favored heaven for respite, listening to the voices of his kin as they remapped strategies and considered plans of retaliation. He noted with considerable grief that those voices were not as numerous as they had been before, as Heaven had lost a great many stars that day._

_Not much later, when he was better revitalized, he'd descend to earth for another meeting with the demon he better preferred—ever reminded how desperately he needed to win this war._

* * *

The harsh raking of claws against the concrete alerted her barely in time. Meg tore her knife from a canine throat, bounding around a second before casting out her power to send its insides gnarling. It howled in pain but pressed on, snapping its jaws at her heels. She caught sight of Castiel fighting another, although he looked haggard despite his upper hand. There was a strangled yelp, and then the sound of a large body hitting the earth as the angel tore his blade from its skull.

Meg felt a set of claws carve up her side and cried out through gritted teeth, stabbing her knife up through the underside of a matted jaw. She ignored the assault of pain jackknifing across her skin and shoved the dead bulk away, seeing that her partner in crime was sporting some bloody souvenirs now too. He'd just gotten his arms around a meaty neck before he was taken down by more of the pack.

The angel heard Meg shout his name, out of reach, and he buckled under the crushing weight as one of the hounds leapt up onto his back, digging in claws and tearing at pinion and bone. Unable to help it, a piercing blast of sheer noise ripped from his throat.

The celestial voice caused the entire building to quake. A light fixture high above their heads was shaken loose, plummeting with a thunderous crash next to where they stood. Meg heard the stomach-churning sound of bones breaking, a rare feeling of empathy slamming through her at the subsequent sound of the angel's agonized yell. She tried to cut herself a bloody path to him, but became quickly surrounded.

" _Shit_."

The demon's teeth were bared in a grimace as she started stabbing her way through, militant and fierce. Ebony blood coated leather and denim, matching the inky surface of her eyes, and rotten breath hung hot at her heels as she dodged and struck at their mangled faces. Meters away, Castiel was throwing a hound off his back before he was suddenly right in front of her, hauling the demon tight against his chest without warning. A rush of wind surrounded them amid the thundering howls, and then nothing.

He did nothing.

Just stood there, keeping her trapped.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, beginning to struggle. There were only a few stragglers left of the pack, but they'd be torn to shreds in seconds at this rate. "Don't just st—!"

Castiel turned blue eyes on her sharply. "Be quiet!" he said, clamping a hand over her mouth.

Startled and furious, Meg was sure he'd lost his goddamn mind, but then she realized… the hounds weren't attacking. She could still hear them, baying loud a mere arm's reach away. It wasn't long after that when she noticed the wings. Iridescent, furling shapes, massive in size. Barely visible and a mere suggestion of solid mass. And they were  _stunning_.

Meg became instantly spellbound.

"It's how we remain invisible if we don't wish to be seen," said the angel in a hushed voice. He removed his hand, but kept her close enough so that their noses nearly brushed when he looked at her again. "I needed a moment," he explained through a grimace, taking a breath. As though in evidence to this, Meg noticed the mixture of blood and light seeping through the awful wounds he'd acquired. "To regain strength."

"For what?" she asked, unable to keep the breathless wonder from her voice.

Castiel's eyes abruptly radiated with the divine. "Shut your eyes," he commanded. " _Now_."

Understanding, Meg threw an arm up to shield her face as he broke away from her. The loud, ear-piercing ring that followed was deafening, and the demon gritted her teeth against the holy assault on her ears.

Ignoring the pain that tore through him still, Castiel cast out his grace in a wide arc. Light immediately flooded the darkness of the warehouse like a beacon, and a blast of pure heavenly power slammed against and ripped into the remaining hounds. Their suffering cries cropped up in a gruesome chorus as the scent of burning flesh melded with the other terrible smells in the air.

When the sounds and presence of power faded into a dull, quiet hiss, Meg slowly opened her eyes. She blinked against the remaining light, straightening a bit and lowering her guard. All the windows had been blown out. Another light fixture hung only from a single chain above their heads.

Stark, stretching shadows were spread wide, blotting out some of that light. The silhouettes shimmered, smoldering embers caught within their nebulous depths. In the center of it all, Castiel was surrounded by a graveyard of burnt out husks. There was blood spilled all down his back and over his face, but still he shone like the center of some roaring star.

Meg stared in shock as that light gradually dimmed, wishing it wouldn't or that those powerful appendages wouldn't retreat so that she could look at them a little longer. The demon was smoking, she realized then, and saw that the ends of her hair were a little singed.

"Holy shit," she muttered, kicking at a lifeless invisible mass.

"We should go."

Meg blinked and suddenly they were in her motel room. She had no idea how he'd even known this was where she was staying, and doubted he'd ever tell her. In any case, it was a welcome sight compared to the dog's breakfast they'd left behind at the warehouse. She angled her head to regard Castiel, who was swaying a little where he stood.

He coughed hard into his hand, almost curling in on himself, and the awful sound rattled wetly in his throat. There was blood left behind when he drew back, and Meg wondered if she should worry. A moment later, he cleaned all visual evidence of the fight away with his power, but it was obvious he was still in pain.

Adrenaline still pumping after the fight, she lifted her nose at him, assuring that they fell into their usual repartee. "You know, if you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask." Maybe she needed to get that image of him looking so broken out of her head, too.

Castiel looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. The suggestion appeared to flummox him. "I wasn't hugging you. I was—" He broke off at the sight of that infernal smirk, withholding a sigh. "You're teasing," he muttered, realizing.

Meg simpered, shaking her head at him. For a hardened soldier, he sure was too fucking cute sometimes. Castiel didn't seem to appreciate her amusement. His loss.

There was something else in his eyes, though.

"Are you… hurt?"

Meg lifted an eyebrow at the surprising show of concern. "I've had worse." Almost primly, she brushed at the sleeves of her jacket, turning to inspect her reflection in the nearby mirror. She dug a handkerchief out of the bedside table and began dabbing at the sluggish flow of blood above her temple. "You, on the other hand, look like hell warmed over."

Drained and jaded, the angel glanced down at his previously blood-ridden form. "I was your shield. Of course I look terrible."

His gruff tone and narrowed eyes made her chuckle. The sound of it was dusky and almost appealing, stretching across the space between them to caress his bowed shoulders and dance along his spine. Castiel withheld a shudder, moving to lean dependently against the fridge for support.

Meg lowered the handkerchief and considered him thoughtfully through the reflection in the mirror. "You still in hulk mode?"

"I don't know what that means."

The demon's smile was lazy in reply. "I mean your shitty ass mood from the other day."

Castiel considered all he had seen today, growing somber. "I'm at war and my family is dying," he said quietly, almost to himself. "My friends are at risk. What mood would you suggest I undertake?"

"One with a sense of humor would be nice," she said mildly, regarding him with a lighter smile than he was used to from her. "Still… it's good to see you still know how to party," she said of the earlier fight. Meg turned from the mirror, tossing the handkerchief away and noting her company's hitched movements and hunched over form, already regretting her practicality. "Prick's gonna notice an angel flash fried his pets."

"I'll take care of it."

The angel looked like he was about to take off.

"Sit down, would you? Take a breather. You're no good to me crash landed on some mountain in Burma." Just seeing him like that was making  _her_  cringe, which was rude if you asked her. It wasn't her fault the halo hadn't been paying attention. Or that he'd just come from a fight in the first place. Stupid angels—always thinking they were so indestructible. Meg tossed her duffel full of weapons onto the bed and beckoned him over before he could slump into one of the dining chairs. "I take that back. Come here."

Castiel was already eyeing her warily, like she might pull a nasty trick. "Why?"

Meg rolled her eyes as she sauntered over. "Turn around, you overgrown pigeon. Let me take a look at you." He only stared blankly at her, either not comprehending or silently refusing. Meg circumvented whichever it was, skirting around him with a huff. "Damn, you're impossible."

The angel tensed at the sudden touch of her hands running up his back and across his shoulders, feeling for damage. He shrank away from the contact as though burned. "What are y—"

"Hold still."

Castiel frowned at her wandering hands, bristling at her evident delight over his discomfort. Meg volleyed a few barbs his way, unable to help herself from needling him. If he had no broken bones before, the overwrought manner in which he was holding himself now would certainly do the trick. His back was ramrod straight, fingers curled into fists, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched tight as though he was enduring torture.

His vessel trembled slightly from exertion and he'd bled all over the carpet, but the little treetopper was more worried about what she was doing out of sight.  _How adorable_.

Meg knew he wasn't used to being touched, but this was just ridiculous. Then again… he  _was_  badly hurt. She could feel the leftover evidence in the handsome framework beneath her hands, and wondered if she should try to press her luck. Or maybe the stuffy celestial would actually smite her on the spot without so much as a carpet stain.

"Can't you heal?"

"That last hellhound damaged my grace. It's… taking longer."

"This hurt?" Meg asked, pressing an experimental heel into the curve of his spine with her hand. She smiled to herself when he made a quiet sound, shoulders tensing. His response was a stiff headshake nevertheless, which she chuckled at.  _Stubborn little shit_. Her fingers felt their way up to his neck, gently massaging the flesh there.

Castiel jolted slightly, a tremor working its way through him at the unexpected brush of skin.  _Put an end to this. Right now_. Her fingers kneaded and pressed at the knots and injuries to his back and shoulders, testing out durability. And  _tolerability_ , he was sure. What on earth was she doing?

"Gotta take better care of yourself, hotwings."

Castiel wanted to protest such a ludicrous remark—he was  _fine_ —but the feel of deft fingers pressing into the aching, tired muscles of his abused body was too… distracting. He couldn't account for the strange fitfulness in his gut, the foreign way every nerve ending responded to her proximity in a manner that was somehow different than how an angel ought to react to a demon.

Castiel's eyelids fluttered slightly and his head dropped a bit in languid appreciation. The pressure brought discomfort of course, which was only to be expected after becoming a hellhound's chewtoy. But then again, it also felt sort of… nice.

_Do not let your guard down with her_ , a voice in his head sternly warned. But instead of the straightforward refusal he'd originally intended for her somewhat patronizing suggestion, all that came out of his mouth was a low, involuntary hum.

"Relax."

Out of nowhere, he imagined what her hands might feel like on other parts of him. What her own skin might feel like to the touch. Abashed at such a reaction to her, Castiel began to withdraw. "I should go. I have duties in Heaven."

There was a gusty sigh that drifted over his shoulder from behind. "Really, Clarence?" Meg considered him forbearingly as she stepped back in front of him. His gaze lifted from his shoes to meet hers, inscrutable. "Lay your head down. On my shoulder. I'll take care of that last knot."

Her voice was clipped, clinical—betraying nothing to the way she was clearly goading him. Castiel stared at her. The demon stared back, lifting a single eyebrow sharply.

"No," he said. Almost defiantly.

Meg felt a mushrooming impatience. Despite this, she could only smile at him. "Suit yourself, Castiel."

"You keeping your distance does suit me."

Privately, Meg thrilled at the scathing remark, almost proud of him. "Well, cookie for you then. Saving my ass when you can't stand the sight of it? Almost noble of you." Even as she said it, Meg knew that wasn't true. The way he looked at her sometimes might have been oblivious to him, but the demon knew a sensual look when she saw one. A little insight that came with the horns. Still, his denial was charming.

"I didn't save you."

"Pretty sure you did," Meg said, grinning and wrinkling her nose up like something was cute. She considered his still battered appearance, jerking her chin at him inquiringly. "Better?"

His warring emotions whenever he was with her had continued to worsen over time, but right now they were especially smothering. Castiel couldn't understand it. "Fine," he muttered.

"What about the wings?"

…Did she mean  _his_?

Even Castiel felt embarrassed with himself for the foolishness of that thought, once he had a moment to consider her question. What was it about being near her that rendered him completely  _brainless_? Of course she meant his. Who else's would she have meant? "What about them?" he grumbled, thinking that the state of his actual, physical wings was an odd thing to ask after.

"Feathers out of whack? Bones busted up?"

Castiel shook his head and lied. "No."

Meg quirked an eyebrow at him, regarding him slyly from beneath sooty lashes. "Can I see them?"

He was instantly on guard, defenses slamming back into place. "What for?"

One of the most daunting things about working with this demon was that the angel could never be sure if she was legitimately wanting something, or just being sarcastic. Or manipulative. It was hard to tell with Meg. In general, she left him in an almost constant state of confusion, which was endlessly frustrating. More than likely she was very aware of that fact and glad for it.

"Because." Meg tapped a finger thoughtfully against his tie, eyeing him up in a way that was too impish for his piece of mind. "Maybe I want to rip them out?"

The remark threw him, but it wasn't long before arrogance swelled in the face of her gumption. She was so brazen. Like a cat, ready to take on a city of hounds. Meg barely caught the spark of inherent smugness in the angel's expression before it was gone.

Castiel's smirk, however, remained cool. "You would never be able to."

Something dark and sinister broke over her face at the words. A sharp eyebrow perked. "That sounds like a challenge, Castiel."

"I'm stronger than you."

Predictably, that riled her. "Pride goeth before the fucking fall and all that," Meg growled. Her jaw jutted out defiantly and she looked up into the angel's face, unable for the life of her to decode the look he was giving her. It seemed like it might have been dangerous—a warning. But there was something else there, too. A glint that was less superior and more… inquisitive.

Testing the waters?

Just as she was about to hurl another sarcastic remark at him, Castiel vanished from in front of her, porting himself away. Somewhere far enough from her presence, but not so far that he strained his damaged grace. He still had a warehouse to wipe clean.

Meanwhile, the demon smirked at the empty space where the angel had just been. Those waters were apparently too hot for little Ravenlocks. Well… that was just fine. Meg was patient.

Eventually, her little angel porridge would be  _just right_.

She knew she was likely kidding herself, used to coveting what she couldn't have. But it was fun to pretend. Sometimes she forgot that she was not a woman at all. Not really. She was an inferno, a tempest. She was venom and fangs and claws. Castiel was lightning and starlight. He was an  _angel_ —light years away from the likes of a demon who was hell in high heels.

And yet they were both from a place far beyond eyes.

Maybe… just maybe… they weren't so different at all.

* * *

_confused what I thought with something I felt_   
_confuse what I feel with something that's real_   
_I tried to sell my soul last night_   
_funny, he wouldn't even take a bite_

* * *

DECEMBER 2010

Inevitably, things began to fall apart.

It started when Meg's voice came across the phone, telling him that she'd captured the Winchesters and that she was coercing them into a joint hunt to track down and kill Crowley.

Withholding the string of Enochian curses that hung at the edge of his tongue, Castiel fought hard to think up some sort of failsafe. For months, he'd been trying to keep Meg off the trail of Crowley, and likewise Crowley from discovering his partnership with Meg. Now, with the Winchesters involved, things were going to get very complicated. They'd want Crowley dead, too.

As well, the angel heard the voices of Rachel, Balthazar, Samandriel, Ezekiel, Inais, Bartholomew—all beckoning him back to Heaven. Deigning to first address the most critical issue, Castiel ascended into battle with his brothers and sisters.

Only minutes later, he suddenly heard Sam's prayer. At first, he'd intended to disregard it, seeing little other choice, but then the words "ark of the covenant" rang through his head in saving grace. Immediately, Castiel ported himself to the younger Winchester's side.

"I'm here, Sam."

Hopefully one good thing could go as intended today. One more heavenly weapon was one more victory against Raphael, and therefore an advantage they desperately needed right now.

But then Sam was calling him an idiot, citing some film, and frankly Castiel  _felt_  the idiot for so easily believing the lie. His anger flared hot and he practically  _dared_  Sam Winchester to try and make good on his promise to kill him. The angel was in no mood for these puerile games, and the hostility he felt was like a second skin. Not to mention that every time he looked at the boy, it was his own failure staring him right in the face.

Completely unintimidated by Sam's height and threats, he was ready to argue, but… thinking it over quickly, perhaps it could work in his favor.  _If_  he was smart about this, and very,  _very_  careful. Castiel wondered if he might actually be ill, or if that was just the feeling of despair again, knocking on his door. He had one demon to forewarn, one demon to throttle, and two hunters to cover in wool.

Was there anyone he  _wasn't_  lying to?

Castiel felt repulsed with himself. The constant subterfuge, the increasing odds against him, his weakening position in the war… it was beginning to devour him. He could feel it. Despite this, he followed after Sam with a mask of petty annoyance, stifling the barrage of turmoil roiling inside him like a pit of snakes.

The sight of Dean relaxed him somewhat, although it also sent his anxiety skyrocketing again because of the deception surrounding him. This friend who trusted him was oblivious, and even welcomed him with a weary sense of relief. For a brief, wild moment, Castiel considered telling them everything. The notion lasted about a tenth of a millisecond before he cast it far, far away.

They could never know. He'd promised himself that.

So he lied. Again. Crowley was not hidden from him at all, but he couldn't continue to protest this plan of theirs. Instead, he would pretend to  _try_  and locate the King of Hell and then say he was unable. If he continued to argue to no end, they might see through him and suspect how he was attempting to cover his own ruse.

Castiel took care to appear properly grudging and not look either of them in the eye as he let the barefaced lie spill past his lips. Even as he did, the angel lamented the way he'd become and the things he had to do to keep his plans on track. More importantly, to protect his friends.

What a cruel twist of irony it was that the two people who taught him best to lie were now the ones he was deceiving most.

* * *

After they went to Samuel for answers only to receive none, Castiel returned them all to the abandoned house where the siblings debated how best to find Crowley. Castiel, meanwhile, remained quiet and gave no answers or advice unless he was asked outright. He feigned ignorance and inability to help as simultaneously guilt made him feel profoundly weary.

Maybe someday he would explain everything to them and they would understand the dilemma he'd faced, the price paid to keep the world as it was and the apocalypse from being restarted. But, until then… they couldn't know. It made for a lonely and dark feeling, and he did want to be forthcoming, but as he'd decided long ago, he had to bear this burden alone.

The burden of knowing he was the one responsible for Sam being soulless, and the Winchesters being torn apart.

Castiel feared he would never be forgiven if he couldn't find a way to fix this. But how could he? Even if he was able to somehow retrieve Sam's soul from the Cage, it would be a beaten pulp. Not for the first time, he mourned his reckless decision. He'd been foolish, proud, and  _thoughtless_  to think he could somehow bring Sam back fully. Looking back on it all pained and alarmed him, because his choices lately always seemed to backfire or self-destruct.

Sickened with himself, Castiel sought some form of distraction, and so Dean handed him the remote to the small television.

He hadn't lied about the porn. It really was just  _there_.

As the angel watched the scene with the pizza man and babysitter unfold, he tried to puzzle out the fundamentals of it all. He actually welcomed the inanity at first, thought-provoking as it was. It spared his mind the eddy of doubt and panic warring inside his head, for however brief a time. It was somewhat of a relief, too—as absurd as it sounded.

_Mindless entertainment_ , the saying went.

It was nothing he hadn't seen before. He'd been watching humans for thousands of years, after all. But then, even something so crude and pointless as a debaucherous film betrayed him. Bizarre as it seemed, it caused the angel's mind to wander. His thoughts turned to, of all things, a ring of fire. A hotel room. Bones broken, pride nicked, that demon's too-soft hands sliding between his shoulder blades in that secret spot which rooted his wings. Castiel's breath hitched at the memory.

Dean and Sam were chastising him about something, but he was too distracted to discern what about. Not long after that, Samuel appeared at the house with information, having changed his mind apparently. He was gone minutes later, and Castiel found himself following the Winchesters outside to make preparations, when there she was. Three other demons were with her, and he recalled her mentioning how there were still other Lucifer loyalists out there besides just her.

Meg's haughty demeanor lit up when she saw him coming down the creaking wooden stairs with the two hunters. After all, the angel had informed her that he'd be removing himself from this little venture. Meg wasn't sure why, but she assumed his staying had something to do with the pissing match upstairs.  _What a delightful, scheming little shit_ , she thought. She'd have to praise him for it later.

Castiel silently willed the demon to behave. He summoned every ounce of revulsion he could find within himself and arranged it onto his face as he stood across from her. His impatience, however, was very real. If she compromised anything with this  _recklessness_ …

But Meg was already smirking up at him, dark eyes glittering with a ready taunt. "Remember me?" she asked in a lazy drawl, looking him over. "I sure remember you, Clarence."

Her tone was playful, even sharp. To anyone else it would have seemed nothing more than errant ridicule, but the roots of that mockery went much deeper—a secret shared just between them. Castiel's fingers itched to smite that smug look off her face. She knew  _exactly_  what she was doing, damn it all.

"Why are we working with these…" Castiel couldn't help himself, " _abominations?_ "

He was angry with her still, and made sure she knew it.

Something furtive and sly flickered behind those dusky eyes. One of Meg's eyebrows twitched as that shit-eating smirk she often wore broadened into a full grin. Without words, it said that she was enjoying his reaction. "Keep talking dirty, it makes my meatsuit all dewy."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, his temper blustering. Now she was  _encouraging_  him, inviting him into whatever insipid game she was playing. He'd find her fascinating if she weren't so exasperating.

During the uneasy armistice, that resentment only continued to smolder. She wouldn't stop looking at him, throughout the entire exchange. Castiel supposed he never stopped looking at her, either—unable to rein in his heated glare for even a minute. He chided himself, commanding discipline as it pitched in and out of control. She was making a mess of things, bringing the Winchesters into this. Not to mention Crowley wanted her dead. Her life was at risk, this was  _dangerous_. Was she out of her mind?

With the way her lips kept twitching at him, that question was answered.

"Give me the knife for a minute."

Castiel glanced sharply at Sam, instantly suspicious. He saw that Meg's reaction was strikingly similar, so at least her survival instincts had not taken too dramatic a hit. All the same… Sam Winchester, he trusted. Sam Winchester without a soul, he did not.

_Don't give it to him_ , he thought errantly, surprising himself.

That knife could destroy her. The situation made Castiel suddenly very nervous. More and more, he was finding he disliked it when things threatened her. It was bizarre, but for some unearthly reason he couldn't fathom, the angel felt that only  _he_  should ever be allowed that liberty.

But Meg did surrender the knife, not taking her eyes off Sam for a second as she held it up, leveling him with a thousand unspoken threats. She handed it over then, visibly annoyed about having to do what he asked. Immediately, Sam lunged without warning and killed one of the demons under Meg's command before anyone had finished reacting to the sudden flurry of movement.

He then went on in a wild, seething tone about how the thing was more interested in killing them all than getting the job done, and Castiel relaxed some. His emotions were intriguing—a vast hindrance, but intriguing all the same.

His gaze slid back to Meg, and she stared at him pointedly. Communicating in so many words and yet not speaking at all. Somehow, the angel knew that look.

That look promised trouble.

Meg made a show of looking him up and down suggestively, her eyes exploring his body with transparent appreciation. It flustered him. What in hell was she doing? Was she deliberately  _fucking with him_? It was an expression he often heard Dean use, and it seemed appropriate now. A chorus of crickets filled the night as Castiel saw his friend giving them both a strange look. Inwardly, he backpedaled, trying to banish all evidence of the tension he felt from his face.

Was she trying to sabotage everything? Would she tell them? Her mannerisms were subtle enough, and Castiel supposed that since neither Sam nor Dean knew they were working together in private, they would likely suspect nothing. But her behavior still set him on edge. Worse, Meg appeared to know all this and was deeply gratified by it.

_Demons_ , he thought blackly.

* * *

_better beware, I go bump in the night_   
_devil-may-care, with a lust for life_   
_I know you can't resist me_   
_boy, you better run for your life_

* * *

In the short time before they would leave, Castiel cited that he needed to return to Heaven to speak with his lieutenant. But he did not need to speak to Rachel. Nor did he go to Heaven. Instead, he left the abandoned house and went directly to Crowley's prison. Heart hammering uneasily, he felt a dose of panic begin to set in at what was happening and how out of control things were spiraling.

"Ah, Castiel. What brings your feathered rump to see me today?"

Castiel looked around at the carnage of torture surrounding them both, ashamed all over again to be associating with this demon. Bracing himself against the self-loathing he felt, the angel warned the King of Hell what was coming, despite that he wanted nothing more than to kill Crowley himself.

"Of course the Winchesters are coming. I had Grandpa Campbell invite them."

* * *

_welcome to the nightmare in my head_   
_the spider crawling down your spine_   
_the monster in your bed_   
_I know you want to risk it_   
_just give in and you won't be sorry_

* * *

Returning to his friends and finding Meg and her backup ready as well, the small band of misfits made way to the prison. As they deliberated over what to do, she stood close to him—too close—and Castiel wasn't sure if it was purposeful or not. He forced himself to ignore her completely, both for his own peace of mind and sanity. Least of all the reason they were here.

He remained heavily guarded, what with their last encounter, but the way she was acting tonight only made that need more prominent. Castiel still didn't understand what was happening, not at all—not with her, nor with himself. The way he always felt so  _much_  when they occupied the same space together… it bothered him. The demon seemed to know it too, and wasn't afraid to use it against him.

"Meet me at the side door," he told them.

Meg smiled over at him when he led them safely inside, the barest curve of her lips inciting him right down to his grace. She eyed how he held open the door for her to pass through and shook her head. "Nice to see chivalry isn't dead."

Castiel squinted after her, further annoyed that she was determined to put him more on edge than he already was. He had to get a handle on himself. He couldn't allow her to string such a reaction out of him. He was better than that. Despite his irritation, though, the familiarity of her incorrigibleness was grounding. It provided an anchor for him to concentrate on which he hadn't anticipated, but took full advantage of. Because although their host was privy to their arrival and a plan was already set in motion, Castiel still harbored a wrong sort of feeling. He couldn't account for it, but something wasn't right.

Perhaps it was the guilt gnawing away at him. Whatever the case, his vocal chords worked of their own volition, low and quiet as the group passed the decrepit cellblock so that only she could hear. "Stay close to me."

It was said in resignation, a duty borne out of debt, but when Meg glanced his way, her brow was quirked at the peculiar nicety. Castiel was already focused on other things, determined and militant as he led them further in. Their flashlights swept down the filthy corridor, paving a crude path they struggled to see. The entire facility was eerily silent overall, with no sign of Crowley anywhere.

Feeling unsettled, Meg arrowed her eyes to Castiel. He wore a hard, cautious expression as he scanned the darkness that almost belied what he was. She knew her own reasons of course, but what was it about Crowley that made the angel so nervous? The King was little match for him, but maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe her little treetopper just harbored what she did: a very strong impression that something was not right here.

Castiel felt something inside him cramp at the dead creature in a nearby cell. It was one of the very shifters Meg had sent him after. For a moment he panicked, thinking surely she would see and become suspicious, but then a voice broke through the quiet, drawing all their attentions.

"You've gotta get me out of here."

It was a female djinn. She was shackled to the bed she sat on, looking as though she'd endured some form of torture. The thing was dangerous to the root of her bones, a  _monster_ , and yet she looked so small sitting there. She was clearly petrified.

Sam urged them all away, indicating that they had little time, and Castiel was for once grateful to him. However, when they stepped into the next illuminated hallway, Meg practically ran face first into her partner's trenchcoated back.

" _Wait_."

The angel had gone stock still, grace crackling around him to the point where she had to take a step back. Blue eyes glazed over, and Castiel appeared to be listening intently to something that no one else could hear. He wore a strange, gaunt expression as he looked back from where they'd come, and everyone else followed suit, trying to see what he'd heard.

Meg soon caught on, blanching at the sound. "Damn it," she grated out. "Here come the guards."

They all heard it then: the baying of dogs. Never let it be said that Crowley wasn't a stickler for methods tried and true.

Deans' face went slack and pale. "Hellhounds," he said, even as the howls came closer and closer at impossible speeds.

They all took off at a dead run, eventually bursting through a set of double doors as the hot breath of the hounds slapped at their heels. Castiel heard the distinct sound of two bodies hitting the floor and something inconceivably cold stole over him. Before he could consider what that feeling was, small hands were suddenly gripping tight over his arm. He afforded her an added boost of speed, hauling her with him as the brothers lead the way.

Meg's errant darkness clung to his light, actually doing as he'd told her for once and keeping close. After that, the angel's actions weren't his own. Sam and Dean were working on barring the doors and instantly his hand reached back, pressing her out of harm's way, not even realizing he was putting himself between Meg and the imminent threat. On the other side of the doors, her two remaining henchmen were torn to shreds, their screams echoing over the barking snarls.

"I knew this was a trap," Dean growled out, letting Meg have a dirty look.

The demon had already regained her cool demeanor, eyeing the hunter up with a prompt retort. "What do you want, a cupcake?"

Sam had finished salting the door, but the scraping of claws still carried from the other side. "Alright. That should keep them out."

The small port windows were blood-splattered. "Not for long," Dean replied, looking first to Castiel and then Meg—the only two in the party who could actually see what they were up against. "How many are there?"

"Lots," said Meg.

Castiel grimly nodded his agreement. He counted four. Inwardly, he was furious at this new development.  _Hellhounds_ , of all things. That was  _not_  the plan as they'd discussed it. Crowley had sent them for Meg, he was certain of it. Not to mention that Sam and Dean could have easily been killed along with those demons!

"Well, I'll be pulling for you," Meg was saying now. "From Cleveland."

" _What?_ " Dean barked.

She shrugged, smiling coolly. "I didn't know this was going to happen." Castiel looked at her sharply. What did she— _oh_. She was leaving. Good. One less person he had to keep alive. "Bright side?" Meg offered them all a winning smile. "Them chewing up my meatsuit ought to buy you a few seconds. Seacrest, out."

The demon tipped her head back and parted her lips wide, preparing to desert the body she was possessing. But nothing happened.

Castiel read the sudden fear on her face, almost distraught himself to see it there. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look afraid before. The angel cast out his senses, scanning over her body, her smoke, seeing the invisible chains that were cinched around both forms which he hadn't noticed until now. "A spell, I think." He looked into her face, alarmed now as well. "From Crowley. Within these walls, you're locked inside your body." Angry again, Castiel experienced wrath.  _This was not what they had discussed!_

"Karma's a bitch,  _bitch_ ," said Dean, almost selfishly glad for their plan getting botched.

Meg regarded the hunter with baleful insolence and attempted to stifle the panic she felt.  _Trapped_. She hated that word and despised the feeling. Her expression further soured, and she glanced to Castiel for any clue on what to do next.

Surprising them all, Sam suddenly held up the demon killing knife, switching the blade around so that he could extend the handle to her. "You can see them. Take this, hold them off. It's our best shot."

There was something inscrutable in her eyes. Some deeply buried pain that flared ever so slightly to life, only to be quickly smothered back down and replaced by grim acceptance. "At Crowley," Meg said tightly, briefly meeting the angel's eyes before looking back to Sam.

Castiel realized with some shock that she was quite literally prepared to die, right then, so that Crowley would not see the light of another day.

"Take it and go. You kill the smarmy dick. I'll hold off the dogs." Dark eyes fell again on the angel, a glimmer of something strange there.

Well, shit. If she was gonna die, she might as well.

Suddenly, her lips were on his and somewhere there was lightning.

It was nothing like she'd imagined at all. Even as he went rigid as a statue, a rush of alien emotion lanced through her. It shook her to her very core, a tingle of something forgotten stirring out of dormancy. Every nerve ending seemed to explode, and she nearly blacked out her original intention for such a gamble.

Immediately, it was all too much and Meg pulled away, plastering a smile on her face to disguise how deeply affected she was. Everything around them seemed unnaturally slowed down. Distant, as though lost in a fog. Dean and Sam were not there. Hellhounds did not exist. There was no King of Hell, no war in Heaven. Just a crackle of something primeval.

Two puzzle pieces sliding into place.

Castiel stared at her, distraught and somewhat bewildered by what she had done. She'd pulled away almost as quickly, and he was stunned for all of three seconds before something foreign and arcane seized hold of him. The angel felt possessed. Suddenly, he needed to touch her again like that.

The look in his eyes told her what would happen next.

The demon's smug smile was wiped away as Castiel grabbed her, and everything became a blur. She felt herself being manhandled around and then he was slamming her up against the wall, the press of his mouth descending back down and melding hot over hers. Meg thought she might have tasted hesitation at first, but it was quickly swept away a moment later. The kiss was charged, restarting time from its standstill. Castiel invaded every dark corner of her, a blazing passion roaring to life from seemingly out of nowhere.

To be honest, nothing reached his thoughts other than the sinful, perfect, mystifying feel of having her pressed against him. But if he'd acknowledged their stunned company at all in that singular moment, the angel would have probably thought:  _to hell with Sam and Dean_.

She was magnificent. How had he never noticed before now?

Castiel raked a hand through her hair possessively as his other demanded she be crushed back into him. Meg had quickly become pliable in his arms, letting his mouth ravish hers as she returned his kiss with a crazed dose of ardency. The sensation of his grace washing over her was intoxicating, an electrical current that vibrated through her lips and shook straight down her spine. With each passing second, Meg was more aware of the tingle spreading all throughout her borrowed body and creeping into her polluted soul.

It was like a light switched on for them both, and everything changed. The hand dragging down from her hair over her neck to hold her was like a ballast, a center of hope and comfort, and Meg was sure she'd never look at the angel the same way again. It was an awakening.

It was coming home.

As quickly then as he'd needed to have her, he needed to retreat. Castiel drew back with a shudder, staring at her half in horror. Meg was breathless, standing idly for a moment, flying high. Her eyelids fluttered back open, light rushing in. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it sure as hell hadn't been that. Her knees felt suddenly weak, like she might crumble at any second.

Life itself was rushing through her.

What the  _hell_  had just happened? Somehow, Meg felt like maybe her plan had just backfired on her. Still reeling, she recognized the warm heat of Castiel's large hand pressed over her sternum, fingers lost in the dark tresses of hair. He allowed that hand to slowly slip away, all while trying desperately to ignore the sensation of thorns still stinging at his lips.

No one else existed but him in those wild moments, and Meg needed more. Trembling, it took everything she had just to formulate her thoughts into words. "What was that?"

It was a question loaded with a thousand more like it. Castiel did little else but stare at her, stunned and shamed and confused and angry again. He didn't understand, either. What  _had_  just happened? Everything in him screamed for the destruction of this creature, and he couldn't reason why. There were the obvious reasons but, given their partnership, he shouldn't have wanted to kill her. Yet every cell in his makeup did, something short-circuiting in his brain that couldn't reconcile what had been ingrained and what he now was feeling. Because, at the same time, the thought of any harm coming to her suddenly alarmed him.

Harrowed by all of it, Castiel floundered. He could think of nothing else to say, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I learned that from the pizza man."

Dean and Sam were gaping at him like he'd lost his mind.

He surely had.

Meg appeared dazed, as though she were still trying to regain her bearings. "Well. A+ for you. I feel so…  _clean_."

Gathering herself with a troubling amount of effort, the demon nodded once and straightened her spine. She raised her hand, revealing the angel blade— _his blade?—_ gripped there. She was ready.

Castiel regarded the sight with abashed bewilderment, thrown again and wondering how the hell she'd managed to lift his weapon. How had she even been able to? It responded to him, obeyed  _him_ —

Dean was already talking over his thoughts, abolishing them as reality clawed its way back. "Is that gonna work on a hellhound?"

"We're about to find out," replied Meg, in the only way she could. She jerked her head towards the direction of safety. "Run."

_No_ , Castiel thought, the single word echoing through his head. He wrestled it back down, becoming angrier still, because it—like so much else tonight—did not belong. Yet as he and the Winchesters ran for the opposite doors, he couldn't help but glance over his shoulder at her a final time. Meg was already facing the sealed door, his blade poised in her hand and a losing battle descending imminently upon her. She was small, he knew, but fierce in nature, looking somehow mighty even as she stared down death.

_Go back, go back_ , shouted a voice somewhere deep within him. That was too many hounds. Too many for one demon to face alone.

What the hell was wrong with him? Had she  _done_  something to him? Castiel felt as though his grace was restless, fritzing. He tried to rein it in, willing it to behave as it should. Determinedly, he surpassed the brothers, refusing to look back again. He was an angel of the Lord. His actions were not governed by some lowly demon. He ordered his vessel to regain control of itself.

And then it felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside out. Without his consent, Castiel's own atoms betrayed him, blasting apart in a chaotic storm as he was repelled back to Heaven. The world around him lit up behind his eyes in a burning heat, and then all went black.

* * *

_a shot in the dark, a past lost in space_   
_you hunted me down like a wolf, a predator_   
_you loved me and I froze in time_   
_hungry for that flesh of mine_

* * *

Strapped down and bound in every way neither her body nor smoke could escape, Meg writhed and screamed against the deep bite of the knife Christian Campbell and the demon possessing him handled. She was no stranger to pain, and she could take it better than most. But somewhere secret and far away, an unbidden voice inside her screamed louder, desperate and silent.

It pleaded a single name, traversing across the corporeal planes and straight through the dimensional walls separating Heaven and earth.

* * *

When the angel finally came to, he wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious. Disoriented at first, Castiel laid still. His vision swam, his ears rang, and his grace quavered from the abuse of the banishing sigil.

"—stiel. Castiel.  _Cas!_ "

Someone was shaking him.

"Gracious," the voice of Samandriel murmured. "Is he alright?"

"Better get Rachel, Manny. Go on, buzz off. "

"Yes, of course."

There was a flutter of wings and Castiel found himself blinking up dazedly into the worried visage of Balthazar. The quiet tranquility of his favored heaven surrounded them. Head throbbing, the angel tried to make sense of what had happened. The impact must have jarred him, because he could focus on nothing else but his brother's incessant fretting, which appealed for his full attention. Had he been in a fight? Had he suffered the effects of Joshua's Horn yet again? Castiel was sure they'd reclaimed that weapon from Balam…

"Shit on a bloody turtle, Cas, what's going on?" Balthazar's demands cut through his scattered thoughts, and Castiel saw that the other angel was looking around surreptitiously to be sure they wouldn't have unwanted company. "Lucky you didn't get beamed back to Raphie's side!"

The past few hours came rushing back, and Castiel promptly forgot all previous notion of self-importance or the war. "I have to go."

Even as he said it, he was on his feet, Balthazar scrambling after him. "What are y—"

Without another word, Castiel spread his wings and plummeted back towards earth, reaching desperate, breakneck speeds. His take off had blasted even Balthazar back a step from the force of it.

"The hell's gotten into you?!" his brother bellowed after him, receiving no reply.

The boys were in danger.  _She_  was in danger. Her voice, distant and disembodied, pierced straight through his grace. She needed him. Castiel's wings pounded at the sky, propelling him faster and faster.

His loyalty to the Winchesters he understood. He would die for them— _had_  died for them. But what in Father's name could have suddenly commanded his fidelity over that damned beast so completely?

Castiel was a slave to it. The alien instinct ruled him, drove him. He ignored the daunting implications as something strange and dormant shook itself to life, surging to the surface again. He was panicking, losing his mind— _furious_  at her, but something was  _wrong_. Even as he sought to end her life, something buried deep down within him rushed to save it. He had no right for this concern, no reason at all. It was so obscenely unfounded, and yet his grace slammed against the delicate, fleshy barrier Castiel wore, needing to reach her before it was too late.

She was indispensible, he told himself. That was why. He needed her to win the war. What else could it possibly be? He  _needed_  her, or all his carefully laid plans would crumble like pillars of dust. Raphael would win and the rest of Creation would lose everything. But that arcane pull was nothing logical at all.

Rather a pure, sentient need to  _protect_.

* * *

_I will save you from yourself_   
_time will change everything about this hell_   
_are you lost, can't find yourself?_   
_you're north of heaven_   
_maybe somewhere west of hell_

* * *

Meg sauntered out from where she'd been hidden and waiting, all thorns and hungry vengeance. She came to stand in the gap between Sam and Dean, looking positively malevolent.

"Crowley."

There was utter delight on her blood splattered face, and surprise showed in Crowley's expression when he laid eyes on her. He'd clearly expected her to be dead by now. Just as fast as that surprise showed though, he hid it in favor of cool, casual pleasantry.

"Whore."

"Okay, you know what?" Meg raised her hand and clenched her fingers in together, using her dark power to inflict injury on him. The King of Hell's eyes went wide as he immediately began to cough up blood. Meg afforded Dean a little slide of the eyes, sidelong. "The best torturers never get their hands dirty," she said in a smooth, velvety drawl. As Crowley stayed doubled over, Meg turned her attention back to him, silently thrilling. She hid it well, but the exhilaration she felt was overwhelming.

Yes.

Oh,  _yes_.

He was hers.  _Finally_. She was going to kill him. The relief and satisfaction was barely veiled, surging to the forefront of her mind. Her smile was fierce, half-manic and ridden with ancient rivalry. The Kurdish steel in her hand was poised and ready for the King's blood, and the glint of her teeth hungered for it.

Her voice was cruel and vengeful. Though even as she said the words, Meg knew this was not for her creator at all. "This is for Lucifer, you pompous little—"

In her exhilaration, she let her guard down. A rookie mistake she would later flay herself for. Her legs were suddenly swept out from beneath her and by the time she looked up, Crowley was on his feet, the trap broken, her knife in his hand.

His weakness had disappeared—perhaps an act all along. "You don't know torture, you little insect," he told her in a sharp, superior voice. Both Winchesters were pinned to either wall, just as helpless as she was. But then something happened, and a familiar sound came to them all: the flutter of wings.

"Leave them alone."

The rough voice was like a heavenly choir.

Crowley's temporary smugness was gone as he realized he was now facing an angel, a demon, and two very pissed off Winchesters. A nervous smile crossed his face as he took a halting step back. "Castiel. Haven't seen you all season," he joked halfheartedly. He was looking at the angel like he wasn't quite sure what he was playing at. "You're the cavalry now?"

"Put the knife down," Castiel said of the blade aimed at Meg, and he meant it. Over Crowley's shoulder, he saw her get to her feet, eyeing him admiringly. She was covered in blood he recognized as belonging to a hellhound. Even as that knowledge attested to her strength and skill, every instinct he possessed screamed wildly at him to protect her from this fallen king.

Crowley was pressing his luck, putting on a show. "You that bossy in Heaven?" he wondered, eyes narrowing suspiciously as if to say:  _the fuck you think you're doing, angel?_  He simpered a bit to cover it up. "Heard you're losing out to Raphael. The whole affair makes Vietnam look like a roller derby."

Castiel's features twisted foully. The demon just couldn't resist getting a good poke in.

Crowley craned his neck to the side a little to peer at what lay beside Castiel's feet. "Hey, what's in the gift bag?"

A burlap sack rested on the ground. Castiel plucked a human skull from inside, a dark expression in his eyes as he did so. "You are."

For a moment, he considered actually killing Crowley. Here and now. It would be suicide—but would it be worth it? A lost war for a murdered king? Even Crowley's arrogant smile fell away as he seemed to almost read into Castiel's thoughts.

_Kill him. Kill him_ now _!_

But he didn't.

There was just… too much to lose.

Castiel ignited the fake bones, provided the guise of an evil sovereign going up in flames at his command. Within seconds, it was done, and Crowley was reduced to nothing but a pile of ash on the floor. Or so it seemed. It was shockingly fast and over before anyone even had the chance to fully process it. But they all looked to him as though he were a hero.

Meg looked so satisfied, so  _relieved_ , and then she was gone. With Crowley's spell diminished, she disappeared into thin air.

"Well, she's smart, I'll give her that," Dean was saying with mild chagrin. "I was gonna kill her, too." He glanced back at Castiel with a smirk. "Course, I would have given you an hour alone with her first."

Castiel met his eyes, affecting confusion. "Why would I want that?"

Oh, he'd have time alone with her. Trying not to let his anger show, he listened as the Winchesters assigned him a final task:

"Prison full of monsters. Can't just leave them. Can't let them go."

It was all but a gift basket. Without hesitation, the angel unleashed his frustrations on the vile creatures trapped within the prison's walls, reveling in the destruction he caused, allowing himself the outlet of violence he so desperately needed. He immersed them in holy fire, almost forgetting to make it quick. Even the after effects of having been blasted painfully away did nothing to stem his wrath.

What a tangled web he was weaving. In order to maintain the deception, he had to continue to deceive. He had to lie to his friends' faces. Castiel hated to, and feared that he couldn't continue it much longer—he felt trapped and alone, afraid of the consequences looming darkly before him. He wanted it to be over.

In the last cell, a rugaru alpha stood waiting.

"Where's your  _weapon_ , angel?"

It knew this celestial being was working with its captor. That said, it looked on Castiel with utter revulsion, ready to give him a proper fight. The chains binding it suddenly oxidized, withering to dust at its feet.

Maybe the angel was looking for a fight, too.

"I am the weapon."

Murderous eyes shone like dual stars in the lurid cell, and every shadow retreated in fear from the blinding light.

When Castiel was done and every inhabitant was dead, he still wasn't satisfied. Instead, he felt only more confusion. He felt  _mired_ , grasping onto something, with no idea what was still tormenting him so profanely. He thought he'd worked through and abolished whatever anger he had festering, vented his frustrations. But still it was there, more prominent now than ever.

Castiel's rage expanded, consuming him. He felt the barest trace of fear, the thoughts plaguing him were so confounding. His vessel shook, and he gripped his hands into tight fists to steady them.

He needed answers.  _Demanded_  answers.

Under the force of his murky thoughts, clouds gathered overhead, ominous and dark. Thunder rolled in the distance as he called his weapon forth from some unknown corner of the prison, still tinged with hellhound blood. Crowley would want to meet again soon, to go over a new plan. But Crowley would wait.

Once more, Castiel spread his wings.

* * *

_drink the wine my darling, you said_   
_take your time, consume all of it_   
_the promises were spoiled before they left your lips_   
_and I don't want to be saved_

* * *

It began as it had inside that ring of fire: an intent to kill and burn out the stain of her evil to a crisp. Where it ended up was very different.

Meg found the first motel room she could break into, a ratty dive that smelled of cigarettes and must. Her body was healing from that little bout of torture a few hours ago, and she'd taken the time to wash the blood and grime away. With each burn of her power, though, the demon was reminded of who she'd called out for when vulnerable.

Vexed, she locked the door after taking one last look to make sure she hadn't been followed. Not that it was likely. With Crowley now a pile of smoking ash, she'd be safe. But it wasn't another demon who had taken over her thoughts. When she closed her eyes, Meg imagined someone else standing in front of her with his hand pressed over her throat. Body hot, even from the distance he'd struggled to place between them after that little moment of weakness. Her memory became pure fantasy as she pictured him falling with her again in a very different manner, heard him whispering words against her that he'd never say. Feeling his power, showing him hers, overwhelming each other as they fought for control. Hands, teeth, mouths, everywhere.

That angel. That damn angel. Utterly  _wrecking_  the King of Hell like a cheap tower of cards. Truthfully, Meg was a little pissed that she wasn't the one punching Crowley's ticket, but when all was said and done, she couldn't care. He was gone. The one stain she wanted erased more than anything else in the world was dead at last. That mattered more to her than who dropped a house on the son of a bitch.

Turning to the bed, Meg stretched her arms over her head and sighed. She needed a shower, needed to plan. Needed about three bottles of whiskey. Within moments, though, her wish list was abruptly cut short and what she got was no consolation prize.

Castiel's arrival was heralded by the motel room lights sputtering in an inefficient coping of his presence of power. Meg was startled at first by the melodramatic clap of thunder, but when she saw him looming there, she looked positively thrilled.

Fuck, he liked to make an entrance.

The demon shook her head in appreciation, smiling like a little canary had just fallen onto her plate. Castiel looked primal, battle ready, and he was glaring at her as though he expected something. "Back for more?" she asked. "Or should I just stand here and act impressed?"

No preface, just a growl with a voice like sandpaper over cut glass. "Why?"

He sounded angry. Meg could feel the power and frustration vibrating off of him, the way it had in the halls of that prison. Her eyes glinted with a dangerous sliver of light. "Why what?"

The angel invaded her space, the light over their heads flickering spastically. "Why did you  _kiss_  me?"

Castiel's voice was full of threat, as if he was mere moments from smiting her, and Meg rolled her eyes like a child. Still, there was no mistaking the flash of instinctual fear she felt at the stench of ozone and charged grace. "You kissed back, sugar pie. And one hell of a kiss, at that." Soft lips quirked deviously at the reminder. "You've been holding out on me."

There was a strike of lightning somewhere outside. The fixtures shook slightly, and the wind outside howled against the door.

" _Answer_   _me_."

The demon bristled at his commanding tone, her own ire rising up. "Or  _what_?" she spat out in challenge.

He could vaporize her at the speed of thought, but Meg couldn't help but be insolent and hold her ground. A part of her, even after everything, still wanted a crack at those pretty little wings. To dig her claws into feathers and  _tear_. Her darkness salivated at the thought of causing him pain, because Castiel wasn't the only one in demand of answers. He'd gotten the better of her, too. Even if he failed utterly to realize it.

She took that sort of thing personally.

That defiance only caused the angel's brow to slam sternly inward. "You're not afraid of me."

Meg couldn't tell if he was disappointed or genuinely confused by her transparent lack of mewling terror. Her own power licked at the ends of his coat, pressing up against him in warning. "Well, I'm not going to beg, if that's what you want."

Castiel frowned, suspecting an underlying offer there, and responded quietly although not gently. "That isn't what I want."

They stood in collective silence for a long time, every fixture in the room precariously trembling as the storm outside gathered. Meg was eventually the one to break it. "Piss or get off the pot, angel. Because while I won't beg, I sure as hell won't just stand here, either."

She could literally feel the invisible grip of his hand at her throat, despite that he hadn't moved a muscle. Could practically  _see_  the snapping of his control like a sinew drawn too taught. At the way his blue eyes flashed dangerously, Meg's lips curled over her teeth in a sneer. Maybe it was reckless, but she decided to play into the little power struggle forming between them.

"You want to know why I did it?" All her frustration—sexual or otherwise—made her suddenly volatile. The abrupt change, her voice rough and her eyes too dark, should have warned him. "Because I  _could_. Haven't you ever done something just because you could?"

Of course he hadn't. But Meg wasn't finished.

"Or maybe I just got sick of the dancing around."

The air in the room seemed suddenly thick, the words a cannon shot in the silence between them. Castiel regarded her balefully, looking like maybe he didn't quite understand what she was saying, and maybe a little like he did.

By his reaction, the insinuation in her tone obviously got to him. That unchecked resentment only bolstered Meg's bravado. Her head tilted and those malevolent lips slanted into a smirk that made her features even more seductive. "That being said," she began, pitching her voice low, "how about round two?"

It was time to be proactive, since staring a burning hole through him didn't immediately jumpstart things.

Castiel looked her straight in the eye, sending sparks scattering through her stomach, and lower too. He knew the instant she spoke that it would be different this time. There was a drawl in her voice, a slow slide in her step as she approached, and it was painfully clear she was up to something more than just arguing with him. " _What?_ " The word was an almost physical punch, like he couldn't believe her audacity. The moonlight filtering in through the window splashed against his face, the half-wild expression he wore in anger getting thrown into sharp relief.

He was so damn sexy and he didn't even  _know_  it. The fact that he was so oblivious only amplified that attraction she felt. At his bristling hesitation, Meg tossed the hook in front of his nose. "You're obviously not here to kill me. Not anymore. So let's cut the shit already and move some furniture."

There was a part of her that said it just so she could watch his eyes flatten and that dangerous light come back. Cocking a hip in reply to his angled head, Meg dared him without words to play along. To finally take a bite of that fruit.

Castiel's wings fidgeted nervously despite the harsh expression he wore. That same invisible force he'd felt earlier pressed against his back again now, and the source appeared to be Meg herself—a magnetizing influence calling out to him somehow. His grace brushed outwards, reaching slightly when he refused to move. "I don't—" Castiel broke off, having started with such fire and strength, only to have those flames smothered before they could truly amass. His hatred and frustration simmered to a low boil, and Meg could practically see the wheels turning. "I don't know why I came at all."

The words were tinged with unexpected honesty, defeat weaved into every note. His searching eyes revealed the truth of it, how he was needing answers and finding none. Flummoxed, Castiel's body hovered as though it wasn't sure whether to step left or go right. For a moment their gazes held, and Meg wondered at what emotion or pain was resting there in his eyes. The angel looked to be near a breaking point, struggling not to crumble underneath all that weight he so clearly carried. To her genuine surprise, she realized she felt sorry for him.

As the demon smiled again, Castiel thought he should have found the sight hideous. But he was struck by the almost fey beauty of it, immobilized.

"Don't you?" Meg started, with an upturned lift of her eyes as she admired that churlish resolve. She knew why he was here, even if he didn't. "Come on, soldier. Hang up the weight of that trenchcoat for the night, and I'll show you."

This could be so good, if he'd just give in. Meg chanced another step forward, sidling up to him until their clothes were brushing. Her slight demeanor shift from passive to predator had Castiel instantly on guard again, wary of where this was clearly going. Not for the first time, he was convinced the demon had done something to him. Even as he remembered her selflessly willing to die to that Crowley wouldn't live, he couldn't possibly indulge that blossoming appreciation he felt for her. What right did he have? What right did  _she_  have?

Flustered, the angel frowned down his nose at her. "What are you… what are you doing?"

His voice wasn't nearly as steady as it had been before. Meg decided she liked that hint of vulnerability. She watched as his chest rose with each breath, eyes slipping briefly shut and avoiding the sight of her at all costs—attempting to calm himself.

She bet that was a tad more difficult with human desire now clouding things up. "What do you  _think_  I'm doing, choir boy? I know you're not as stupid as people think you are. Not as innocent, either."

Castiel shook his head, gaze crawling back to hers. It was a physical thing now, smoldering and full of heat. "What we had before was transient," he coolly replied. "Meaningless."

But Meg's smile was salacious, white teeth bared beneath coppery lips. So he  _had_  felt that little spark in the ring of fire?  _I'll be damned_ , she thought. "That's the best kind, haven't you heard?" She slipped up a hand, slowly moving treacherous fingers over the folds of his coat. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"Abomination," he said, every instinct calling for retreat, but there was less venom to it now. "It would be…"

What?

Revolting? Blasphemous? Absurd? All options had crossed his face by now. "Illuminating?" Meg filled in. Her fingers smoothed over his shoulders as she leaned in too close. Castiel watched her, the blue storm of his eyes tracking the movement of her lips as she swiped her tongue against them deliberately. Brushing her nose against his scruffy jaw, Meg murmured to him in a bare voice. "You owe me, angel. Time to show the class what you can really do..."

She'd goaded him like this before once, and the words were a similar challenge then as they were now.  _What_ can _you do, you impotent sap?_

Castiel's fingers were like steel grips on her sides in a sudden surge of speed and shocking power, and the anger was back in his eyes. "Stop your  _taunting_ ," he growled.

Meg laughed against his ear, her smoky vibrato making his emotions bounce between contempt and desire. "Oh, Clarence. So very worried about what others might think. I can practically smell the self-loathing." Her head turned so that her nose brushed his neck and her breath wafted hot over his skin. "Almost human of you." Dark eyes crawled over his face as she drew back, the whites of them disappearing as they were swallowed by starless pitch. "Are you afraid of a little hellfire?"

Cold blue steel burned into smoldering back coals. "As I recall, you're the one who fell screaming into the fire."

The demon's silent rage at that was palpable, hackles rising in answer to the mordant cut of his tone. With a sharp, metallic hum, Meg suddenly had his blade in hand again. The point appeared between them almost dangerously, catching the muted light and reflecting it back in their faces. "You may be cute. But I don't trust you."

Castiel considered her behind the drowsy sweep of his eyelashes, the threat there plain as day. "I wouldn't need a blade to kill you."

There was a deceptively hard edge to his voice, making Meg close her eyes and smirk. "Touché." She threw the weapon over his shoulder nonetheless, and it embedded deeply into the doorframe behind them with deadly accuracy. In the next second, his tie was abruptly tight around her hand, and Meg drew the angel forcibly close until they were a breath apart. Castiel was already reaching up, snatching her wrist to glare down menacingly into her eyes.

His breath came shorter now, uneven. Meg felt hypnotized as his voice dropped to a deeper octave and his grip brought her even closer. "I should have smote you the second I could, demon."

It was a final, empty protest.

Meg's breath hitched, veins singing with anticipation and curiosity. The hand he held shook a little, the bones nearly cracking from his strength. "You could do a lot of things, angel."

Her eyes were an abyss he grew lost in. They defied him, lured him. They dropped to his lips, waiting before slowly climbing back to that turbulent blue storm. Even though this thing between them terrified her, Meg needed more. She was a moth, captivated by the fire she saw inside of him. One taste would never be enough.

Castiel's demeanor changed—so close now, she could feel the warm breath from his mouth hitting hers. The way he stared at her was unrelenting, as though he was waiting for her to become too scared, or pull away and it have all been some sort of game.

Meg did neither.

A moment ago, he'd been the one in control. Using his authority to intimidate and threaten her. But whatever influence he had before was now completely gone, and as his outraged expression dissipated, Castiel's face became filled with staunch desire. "If we do this…" he breathed out, in a whisper that was intensely dark and full of anxious intention.

"Would you shut up already?" Meg retorted in velvet provocation. She tilted her head and took a final step into him, so close he felt the too intimate push of her hips against his, showing how perfectly their bodies fit together. "Take it, Castiel," she muttered, the words just barely grazing his lips. "It's yours."

She was immediately rewarded with a soft groan that rose in the base of his throat, and then he  _did_. Meg's grin was broad and sharp, even as Castiel crashed his mouth down onto hers.

Heat surged into them both at the contact, and a sharp pierce of something lost went shooting throughout their bodies. It was a domino effect, a damn breaking that was immediately carnal and punishing. Just like in the prison, the union of their mouths was electric—a catalyst to something ancient and powerful. What was forgotten and abruptly cut short within those halls soared back to life again, a tiny ember gaining light and strength as heady as the circle of holy fire which had once held them captive.

It consumed them both as everything became tunnel vision, hands and mouths snatching at each other urgently. Neither cared how criminal it was, neither realized how  _familiar_  it felt. Castiel swallowed her moans, tightening his grip to a bruising hold around her. He lost all thought of where they were,  _what_  they were, what could make this the worst decision he had made in a long line of many.

The full press of him from chest to legs, their bodies molding as though they were made for each other? It was completely invigorating. Meg laughed breathlessly as something crashed to the floor, breaking apart at their feet. "Careful, precious," she panted against his mouth, forcing him further back and stripping him of the trenchcoat. "Someone might think you're actually looking forward to this."

Castiel grunted carelessly, kicking aside the pieces of lamp. It didn't matter, nothing did. Everything was miles away as the world around them flared to ash, just as it had in the prison at the first touch of their lips. Broken glass crunched underfoot and his back hit something hard—a doorframe. The angel growled at her grab for dominance, wings stirring, and deliberately seared her with his power. Meg gave a strangled curse, clawing at him with her smoke and talons, temper bridling. She shoved him back against the wood, biting his lip hard in reply as she devoured his mouth and yanked at his hair. It was like a physical fight, the way angel and demon struggled against each other. Against what was happening.

Another crack of lightning struck ferociously from beyond the window, the storm outside gaining malice. Regardless of instinct, Castiel found himself suddenly appreciating the abuse. Both of them were so filled with hate these days, so torn with desire. The wooden hearts in their chests beat wildly in tandem, thundering behind borrowed ribs, because it was something else too. As much as it was reprehensible, it was inspiriting. There was need, there was  _solace_. Meg was startled by the sudden strength of it, dazed and drunk on the taste of that intoxicating, clean flavor he poured into her.

Castiel groaned against her mouth at the sudden feel of deft hands sliding into his jacket, the brush of contact undoing him as the vibration of sound reverberated through her and demanded Meg's breathless reply. She arched into him, seizing hold of his lapel to steady herself against that odd sensation of purity swamping her.

It was something like surrender. As much as they hated one another, they needed to know more,  _feel_  more—of this, whatever it was. This thing between them that neither could ever hope to explain. In the history of Creation, nothing like this had ever happened, and it was as though they were under some spell. Like they hadn't touched in centuries and were starved for each other.

The intense physical ache that curled low in his stomach was overwhelming, and Castiel couldn't stop himself from noticing how she felt under his fingertips. The sensation of warm skin as he grasped her neck, the curve of her body, the softness of her mouth. How her chest rose and fell, faster and faster, heaving against his—it was temptation itself. To counter it, his inner dialogue was practically deafening. Castiel knew that every law in the universe forbade what was happening between them, but he was losing ground at an alarming rate. Every cell in his vessel seemed desperate for her, and, in the back of his mind, he wondered if she was still the villain. With some horror, he realized he didn't care. Meg was making wrecked noises beneath his hands, and he matched the demon's fervor as another voice—stronger, louder—rang out from the heart of his grace and drowned out all reason. It wiped his mind, commanding this be allowed to unfold, that it didn't matter and all that mattered was  _her_.

An instinctual surge of lust howled through the angel's veins, rampant and reckless as Meg grabbed at his belt and pulled it free. A pathetic, stunned groan broke free from his mouth and Castiel had to put his free hand out to catch himself against the wall behind her.  _Forbidden_  wasn't even a strong enough word for what this was. It was a  _funeral pyre_.

The light above their heads burst, showering them in sparks like flecks of lightning. They crashed into the dresser, wood and brass rattling, sheetrock fissuring. Meg grabbed a fistful of the angel's shirt, yanking it out from the waistline of his slacks. Her other hand reached up to pull at the ends of his hair—despairing how far away he seemed, even when so focused on her. She shouldn't care, but it felt like he would never be close enough. His heartbeat thundered beneath her palm and Meg called out his name.

Castiel.

Better than Clarence.  _Clarence_  she could tease. But  _Castiel_  was a creature who could make her break apart in his hands.

Her sudden actions seemed to unleash something in him. There was a low, urgent moan from someplace deep in his throat at the sound of her speaking his name like that. His hand tangled in the hair at the side of her head, demanding and possessive as he slid his tongue against hers. The dark tresses slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, as though they were running out of time. Castiel pushed up her shirt, pressing against the flesh of her stomach, feeling the scars, feeling how soft and pliable she was in contrast to the beast she kept hidden. His warm hand snuck around her middle and back, splayed against the curve of her spine, feeling the way she moved and breathed under his touch. Her sounds and caresses were that of a siren, snaring him in rapture, and Castiel tightened his hold so that their bodies were crushed into a single form. Stifled cries of pleasure spilled from their joined mouths, his actions having caused their hips to grind together torturously.

The angel's lips tore away from hers to drag over her cheek, her throat, large hands moving against the rough slide of her jeans and marveling at the reactions he was drawing out of her. " _Virras nor_ ," he murmured against the vulnerable expanse of soft skin. " _Virras_.  _Perfect_."

Castiel's voice was black as night, husky and pleasure-addled, and Meg shuddered helplessly at what he was doing to her. "Oh, hell," she gasped, throwing her head back. It felt as though she were back in that ring of fire, the heat licking at her skin, searing her all the way down to her smoke.

Castiel was shocked at his own behavior, how easily it came to him. Desire flooded his body at her reedy sigh, and he forgot his inability to reconcile Heaven's laws with these feelings, these  _sensations_  she brought out in him. Emotion slammed through them both, seemingly from out of nowhere. It was all too much and yet it felt like it might never be enough. The way their tongues were entangled, the sound and feel of their labored gasps, the solidness of him everywhere against her and her everywhere against him. So indescribable, so beyond stunning and yet unlike what either had imagined. Deeply buried sorrow took hold of their hearts, lending a strange desperation that neither could understand.

What  _was_  this?

" _Now_ ," Meg ordered. Castiel's breathing was ragged beside her ear, and she suddenly wasn't content, wasn't satisfied. She reached up between their bodies, gripping his crisp white shirt and tearing it open. Buttons scattered. Understanding, he shoved the leather jacket down off her shoulders, and Meg helped him shrug quickly out of the suit jacket, which fell in a pile of fabric at their feet. They crashed together again in tandem, feeling as though they were drowning.

The way he pulled at her, his hands on her hips, then her back and waist, was becoming more and more frantic. A picture frame rattled beside their heads and fell as Meg's back hit the wall. Castiel's hands skimmed down to her hips again, grabbing roughly, hoisting her up, and she became completely caught up in the way he was touching her. Wild, desperate, and hungry with his whole body. If she didn't know any better, she'd have swore it felt like she was the only thing he wanted in the entire world. Like she was actually something he revered. A desolate, indistinct gasp of arousal and longing escaped Meg's mouth and into his. She couldn't even deny it—something disturbingly similar was awakening in her, too.

What was  _happening_? Just as it had with the kiss, her plan to simply seduce him while having a little fun herself was backfiring. Meg reached out, hands sliding up his chest and shoulders, torturously slow over hot flesh. Lean muscle bunched and flexed under her fingers, and Castiel stuttered a little in surprise at the feeling. He seemed to like it, and groaned low as Meg did it again, just to hear the hitch in his breath. She could see the pleasure he felt when her fingers curled and touched, mapping patterns she knew would set his skin tingling.

Castiel tried to catch his breath, tried to make sense of it all. "Need…" he muttered faintly, speaking into her mouth, not sure how to vocalize what he was trying to say. Need what?

"I know," Meg managed to reply, hitching her legs up higher on his waist and lifting her hips into his. The friction was maddening, divine. She uttered a low sound and reached out, tracing the curve of his bottom lip with her tongue, satisfied when he sucked in another breath. She'd assumed she would need to show him, but the angel was a quick study. Almost too quick, for supposedly being new at this.

Castiel was already pulling his tie out of his collar, out of her grip, and Meg quickly pulled off the rest of his shirt. Her own followed shortly after, and the way her back arched allowed him to push back just enough so that she could get her hands between them again, shoving her jeans down over her hips. Castiel peeled them off her legs, boosting her up again, his sounds broken against her as she moved. He braced against the wall with a hand as his fingers swept once more over the ridges of scar tissue from her burns—scars he had given her.

No one had ever marked her like that before, she thought. While Castiel felt an eddy of guilt he couldn't understand at the reminder, Meg felt pride. She felt vindicated. As though she possessed something of his that no one else did or ever would.

If a human had been watching, unknowing of what they were and what it meant for them to be doing this, they might have mistaken the caress for something soft and loving. But any contact at all between the two of them bore an explicit threat, no matter what had taken hold of their minds. It was dangerous, the way their power sparked and clashed. Every move Castiel made caused his light to flare in warning against the demon he knew was just under the surface. Meg's darkness replied by snarling around her like a thorny fence, clawed and coiled around his grace like a vine. Neither of them were flesh and bone at their core, and even when Castiel broke the kiss to look at her, the current between them didn't die.

They should have been repulsed with each other.

"You must feel it, too," he managed in a breathless voice.

Meg could only nod, aware of the burning sensation just touching her skin. She stared up at him, eyes bottomless as a void as they drank him in. His seemed bluer somehow. As though some of that light was bleeding through and reaching out to her.

Even in the haze of desire, they both knew he wasn't talking about their trueforms reacting to each other. Castiel referred to the cosmic lure that made them desperate for one another. That arcane, unseen force that rocked through them in reply to this intimacy that now seemed inevitable, looking back.

There was a rush of wind, a terrible but delicious pull in her middle, and suddenly they were entangled on the bed together. Anxious expectation filled them as the rest of their clothing was shed in a frenzy. Castiel's fingers dug into her like a vice, too focused on her to obey the instinct trying to recoil from that lawless eddy of shadows. They weren't their own anymore, had control of nothing—not their bodies, not their own vocal chords. They were reliving someone else's past, slaves to its spell.

As Meg's fingers curled sharp and bloody over the supple angle of his shoulder, she remembered vividly what it was to see this angel decimate that vampire nest. Then there were the hellhounds, and others of her kind, and she considered how easily he could destroy her with any one of the sensual touches he placed along her skin. The danger of it all was completely addictive and irresistible, and she couldn't resist inciting it.

Castiel's grace resisted her attempts to mark his flesh, crackling against her demon form as she made him bleed. Healing for him meant all the mess was gone, clothes smoothed out and threads woven back together. Gore just blinked away, not a smear of blood left on unblemished skin. But there were some things he couldn't wash away. There was a darkness in him too that hadn't been there when they first met. If it was, Meg hadn't seen it. But she could practically taste it now.

In spite of that dormant affliction, Castiel's eyes as he drank her in shone with a sudden radiance that darkened even the sun. The thin membrane of his vessel was barely enough to contain the way his grace flared bright, and Meg reeled in awe at the way his control slipped. Her entire body  _ached_ , as though pining his absence. She should never have known such a feeling, but there it was—nestled deep against the gnarled crux of her smoke. She despaired and despised that touch all at once, needing more. Wishing for it to end and that it never would.

Their unified, helpless gasps crashed together in broken harmony. A deeply guttural cry fell from Castiel as he gripped at Meg for support, and the ache that had been burning before blossomed now into a stranglehold on their senses. Every nerve-ending in both vessel and trueform became helplessly fixated on the movement and presence of the other. Fire had instigated their affair and so it consumed them now—skin against skin, each forsakenly aware of how defenseless they were to the other in that moment.

Meg forgot all about her need to regain the upper hand, feeling the angel's face hot against her skin, teeth fastened sharp and bright on the elegant curve of her neck. Her mouth fell open underneath him, pressing heavy, gasping breaths into his shoulder as they descended together.

Castiel groaned as her nails sliced deeper into his muscles—a dark eddy of sound that was almost a growl, rippling back against her body. His vision went momentarily black, and then shockingly bright, as though galaxies were exploding behind his eyes. The intensity was indescribable, and he didn't think he'd ever experienced such staggering physical pleasure before as he did now with her. Mindless, he could barely comprehend it, that such a feeling was even possible.

Lissome hands dragged across his back from where she'd dug in, fierce and too hard and tender all at once, down to the arch that hid his wings. The angel made a punched-out noise at the sensation, the appendages stirring to life. He tried to form a reply, rebuke her even for the power she held over him, but his voice refused to acknowledge anything but the way she felt beneath him. How her mouth brushed his cheek, his ear, his neck, hands roaming down his hips and back and up his spine once more. Each caress felt electrifying and Castiel moaned into her neck, utterly wrecked.

The blood rushed white hot through Meg's veins in answering clamor to his cries, and she rolled her hips hungrily against his, calling out his name. Murmuring for him in a broken and tight voice as stars spotted her vision. Faint moans and Enochian phrases were his only reply, and she grabbed his face and forced his lips to meet hers again, drawing his tongue into her mouth, thighs tightening around his waist. One of Castiel's hands left the curve of her hip to slam into the headboard behind her head. The wood splintered at the impact and the bed made a loud groan in protest. Neither noticed, and his hands were suddenly everywhere on her again, feathery touches that contrasted the rough and punishing haste of the passion that tore through them both like physical torture.

Angry and desperate to the point of wordless anguish, they poured everything they had into each other as though trying to win a battle. Touching, moving, straining for purchase—two monsters entangled in violent sin. It felt as though there should have been a limit to the comfort and gratification they created together, but neither could find it.

Locking her arms around his neck, Meg clung for life as their faces turned in towards each other, ragged breaths and distressed moans becoming one voice. The liquid motion of her body enveloped him, and Castiel wired his eyes shut and clutched the bed sheets, true voice slipping past his own restraint. There was a crackling of glass as the mirror on the wall shattered above their heads. The entire room quaked and shuddered, sounding like it was going to come down around them. Meg gasped in pleasurable agony, her cooler skin a relief against his as Castiel lost control.

The angelic resonance drew another cry out of her, and the demon sunk her teeth into his shoulder to stop the noise. It hurt, but was somehow one of the most beautiful sounds she'd ever heard. The echo of that voice continued to ring in Meg's ears, pull at her smoke, her heart—made her tremble with pain and need and everything that neither of them should have wanted but both ached for.

Somewhere deeply hidden, a far off voice inside them both might once have called this  _home_.

Meg had to squeeze her eyes shut as ruined sounds came out of her mouth and her fingers clutched at him hard, useless. She was falling off the edge of the earth, agonized and yet devastated with relief. So  _confounded_. Castiel pulled her smaller body blindly against his, holding her steady. " _I have you_." His voice now was strained and breathless as words continued to spill past his lips in mindless adoration. " _Ozien_ ," he said, the single word lost in the fever of their passion. " _Ozien_."

Dark wings, barely corporeal, unfurled to shade their bodies from the shrapnel as they consummated what had been set in motion over millennia ago, when the mark of his guardian bond was placed on her human soul. Vice and triumph showed in their wake, every war they ever fought seeming to suddenly not matter at all.

The sounds that came from them were becoming more and more frantic, and Meg grabbed his face and neck in both hands, demanding the touch of his lips, the press of his skin. Castiel's breaths grew sharp and shallow as he was barely able to concentrate, barely able to hold himself together. It was overpowering, and all he could do was lose himself in her as they both despaired for something they couldn't name. It was a sensation like being flung over the edge of something, and they each lost composure in the same instant. The small space of the motel room was a chaos of urgent gasps and begging moans as angel and demon conquered and defeated one another, uselessly clinging to reality and each other as release shook through them.

Just like that, it was over.

Ruined and rebuilt alike, Castiel went slack against her, amazed by the song of her ecstasy. Each moan slowly lowered until there was only a faint shudder between them, and they broke apart just barely, stunned. The glow of his vessel gradually faded, losing light until Castiel's skin was like a man's again.

Still riding high from that foreign, strange emotion, a voice buried somewhere deep and lost inside the demon rose up as they lay embraced.  _Where have you been_ , it wondered silently. That voice surely didn't belong to her, but it rang loud in her thoughts as though it did. It said that he was ancient days and taking the entire universe in a single breath. It said she was safe. In that sacred, powerful moment, every part of Meg's body and ravaged soul was alive with this one angel.

The unspoken words had a visible effect on him, fissuring through his expression as though he'd heard her clear as day. " _Olani ovcho ol_ ," echoed Castiel's soft reply, and his regard of her was groveling and devout. He suddenly felt as though he'd been lost in the desert for years, but now she was his again.

_I found you._

It was heartache and relief, shared as one. Those words did not belong to them, and yet they must have. Meg clutched him tightly to her still, no less dumbstruck at what had just transpired. Castiel's shoulders and back were marred by scratches and crescent-shaped marks, and he could still feel the imprint of her everywhere, could see the bruises on her body where he'd held her so tightly. The demon's skin was glistening and flushed as he gazed down at her now, and Castiel touched her with sudden reverence. The look in his eyes was no longer hungry and dark, his intent no longer punishing, and he realized that the predatory glint was now gone from her completely. Ebony eyes instead turned up at him in helpless, breathless wonder, and Castiel saw that she was not monstrous at all. The woman in his arms was unspeakably beautiful, and as enraptured with him as he was with her.

Meg's chest heaved beneath him, desperate for air, for something that was still missing. Her breathing slowed eventually and became quieter, the longer they stared. In the afterglow, his touch felt heavenly on sensitive skin, leisurely and gentle in contrast to the fever pitch of before.

It was startling how quickly it had happened, how quickly it had ended, and yet neither had any intention of moving away. Hearts raced as their gazes held, still full of raw emotion and defeat. The rain beat steadily against the window along the fringes of their intimate space, filling the silence between them.

They felt it. What was there from the very beginning.

Time seemed thick and substantial as both angel and demon existed in shock together, still reeling in the foggy aftermath of what they had done. Meg had a sudden, reckless desire to never commit any evil ever again. Her thirst for violent things was gone, a memory.

What was he  _doing_  to her? What  _had_  he done to her?

Castiel experienced a similar revelation, because the demon and the woman suddenly did make too much sense for both himself and his vessel to want. The beauty of them both was equally stunning in that moment, and he didn't know how to reconcile it with himself.

"Meg."

The angel spoke low and quiet in the soft heat between them, almost worshipful. Everything inside him still ached for her, needing more as though time had been lost. Castiel allowed his voice to drop to a whisper, the demon's true name spilling past his lips, unbidden. A name she'd not been called in so very long.

" _Amarantha_."

Meg shivered at the words, helplessly recoiling at the far too intimate gesture. The way he gazed down at her was heartstopping—like he'd seen the light, and she was salvation itself. The emotions swimming inside her were foreign and frightening, and even as her entire body hummed with an alarming amount of relief, she began to balk under such tumultuous intimacy. The haze of bliss faded.

This was too much. This was… no. No, no,  _no_. She had to escape this, whatever it was. Everything inside her suddenly screamed for retreat and, in her panic, Meg had a wild desire to smoke out and abandon her body completely.

Castiel seemed to realize the very same in that precise moment, his delirious state receding at the profound realization of what was happening. What they were doing, what they had  _done_. It sent a cold uncertainty through him, something that tore into him like a blade before becoming a vice-like pressure in his chest. It was a feeling he couldn't name and the angel began to withdraw, appearing abruptly startled. He gaped at her in mind-numbed shock, as though somehow betrayed.

Even as he retreated, Castiel felt suddenly void of her. He despaired the wrongness of it all, as he'd surely lost all reason, human desire somehow trespassing against holy grace in an earthy coup. To do such evil things… he was suddenly compelled to spread his burning wings and run.

_End this, now. Before all is lost._

All good things they'd felt before were now gone.

Feeling exposed and vulnerable, Meg gathered whatever shambles remained of her cool façade. "That was fun, Clarence," she muttered. "Hate to sex you up and run, but I'm a busy girl. Demons to overthrow, and all that." She shoved at him, needing to just be away from that clean presence, and Castiel was already back to being fully dressed, standing beside the bed with that same winded expression as before.

"I am also busy," came his gruff, agitated reply.

Later, neither would remember which of them had fled first that night. Meg would bury the memory of it all beneath a mask of indifference and contempt, as she did so many other things. Castiel would do the same, but with that unyielding righteousness she was more familiar with and knew how to handle. Aggressive flirting between tension and actual feelings, a dropped death threat here and there—at least then they'd be on more familiar ground.

How foolish had they been to surrender on those base affections when every other instinct expressly warned against it? It was humiliating and, more importantly, a huge fucking  _mistake_. Angel and demon were better suited alone, safe with what they knew and what they were designed for. Good, evil. Heaven, Hell. That was how it should have stayed—the natural order. Existing on opposite sides. They didn't belong together, and never would.

But…  _was_  it better?

After all, how could something end, when it was never given the chance to begin?

* * *

_I breathe you in again_   
_just to feel you underneath my skin_   
_the sweet escape is always laced_   
_with a familiar taste of poison_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> ENOCHIAN:
> 
> "Mialon." | Damn it.
> 
> "Ol hoath." | My love.
> 
> "Aishh lit apachana oe mtif cnila, od malpirg oe mtif ooanoan." | The woman with smoke in her bones, and fire in her eyes.
> 
> "Faboan vithmong." | Poisonous beast.
> 
> "Viiras nor. Viiras." | So beautiful. Beautiful. 
> 
> "Ozien." | Mine.
> 
> LATIN:
> 
> "Sui iustus rhetor." | Self-righteous dick.


	8. Becoming, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t love. 
> 
> It couldn’t be love. 
> 
> But whatever it was, she couldn’t go through one deal or one night raising hell on the town without her thoughts inevitably drifting back to that goddamn angel. He was everywhere—at the bottom of her whisky glass, inside the shadows of every alleyway, distracting her from fights, behind every blue-eyed bastard who gave her a second look. He was everywhere she didn’t want him. If she slept, Meg figured he’d be in her dreams, too. 
> 
> She had to get rid of him, but he was in her bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit my tumblr (worldonfire-spn) for soundtrack, artwork, and other updates.

_I'm not strong enough to stay away_   
_can't run from you_   
_I just run back to you_   
_like a moth I'm drawn in to your flame_

* * *

DECEMBER 2010

It wasn't love, not at first. Something far more reckless.

Meg reveled in the blood as it splattered against her cheek. She ducked the broad swing of an iron blade, clashing again with her attacker in vicious percussion. Her agile movements were lethal, easily turning the other demon's own offensive against it. A misstep sent its weapon flying out of its hand, and Meg brought it crashing to its knees in front of her, beheading the meatsuit in a savage blow and trapping the possessor inside.

_Fuck this demon in particular_ , she thought with an acid snarl, adding a one-off Latin curse to ensure it stayed trapped. She defied most physical laws as she did everything else, but now there was little fanfare to that brutality. No showing off or taunting her prey—her usual modus operandi was dialed down in lieu of the frustrated and angry disposition rattling through her. It wasn't even about survival anymore. It was about distracting herself from the cataclysm of thoughts and feelings rotting her mind. Best cure for that, Meg found, was unleashing pain and suffering on those she deemed worthy of an unholy ass-reaming.

Three more of Crowley's leftover soldiers surrounded her, ready to flay her alive and tear her from her host in the name of their broken mission. Jagged claws slashed at stolen flesh, and Meg seized hold of the closest demon and sent it careening through a wall. One crippling blow from her power tore it in half, and the dead host folded into a crumpled heap. The other two were smarter, drawing her into combat. Her trueform snapped and flared, licking out like tongues of fire against their advance. The way she'd just ripped the other one to pieces did nothing to dissuade them, which meant they were either stupid or damn good at tearing shit up themselves.

_The latter of the two_ , Meg hazarded to guess. She was a lightning strike as she parried and twisted—some dark wraith who took life as though it was owed to her, ruthless to find any opening and sometimes carving one out herself if it suited her better. She toed the first demon's iron blade into her own hand, marking a sizzling path through skin and bone in a violent dance. Relying on speed, Meg sidestepped a charged attack and spun to deal a breath-stealing kick to the demon's chest. It slammed into the nearest support beam, temporarily winded. Meg sprinted after it, sliding below the swing of a fist and driving the point of her weapon up into its ribs. It screamed, loud and grating against the poison blow, and she grabbed it around the collar and spun, propelling it into the frozen planks below their feet. She ripped the knife free, about to finish it off when it threw its head back and smoke poured from its mouth in hasty retreat.

Meg swore through gnashed teeth at the spineless move, but then a strong force slammed her backwards. A fist cracked against her jaw, and the coppery taste of her own blood filled her mouth. Executing a swift kick that sent the last demon sprawling, Meg rolled over her shoulder and sprung nimbly back to her feet. Her eyes had gone black as sin, and she shot up a hand to shove the dark curls out of her face.

"Come on, you shit stain," she baited with a serrated voice.

It predictably charged her, and the two demons clashed in an angry flurry of punches and sinister power. This one was no coward. It wanted her dead—far beyond orders and loyalty to a dead king. Once upon a time, Meg might have admired the son of a bitch for it. She shouted against the exertion they both put out, leather jacket snapping in time with every movement. Her smoke billowed around her, churning and knotting with her thorns in bitter symphony. Meg tasted blood again, ignoring the aching sting of each hit she took while determined to strike back harder with her own. Like she had something to prove.

Maybe she did.

But just as she was being smothered under another assault, her attacker suddenly twisted in a painful arch, its eyes lighting up like dying stars and a wretched scream tearing from its throat as they were burned out. Meg started at the out-of-nowhere display, shrinking back from the light and turning her head to avoid the blast wave of celestial power.

It was over in seconds.

Castiel cast aside the husk of the demon he'd smote, stone-faced and already visibly uncomfortable with their proximity. All Meg felt then was pissed off. She glared at the angel with eyes that spat fire.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Rescuing you, apparently."

"I had it covered," she snapped, wiping the blood from her face with the back of her hand.

Things between them had been tense over the past few weeks. Neither ever spoke about that night, of course; tacitly refusing to even acknowledge it happened, in wake of the fallout. They were especially determined to escape whatever had afflicted them in the midst of it. In point of fact, throughout that entire window of time, they hadn't spoken in person at all. Angel and demon avoided each other at all costs—which was easy enough, as they'd started out with so little contact to begin with. But necessity eventually won out, as would that dark curiosity in days to come.

Castiel looked anxious and fidgety as he glanced over the corpses at their feet. "Crowley loyalists?"

"Or independent contracts, like me," she hedged.

How was it any of his fucking business, anyway? Nosy son of a bitch, interfering with her affairs and denying her the bloodlust she'd been craving. Losing a fight was still a fight, and since he'd just smote the shit out of her only rage outlet, Meg wasn't exactly in a charitable mood. Being in his company had softened her. Made her forget things she was determined to remember now—who she was, the cause she served, _what_ she was. That inferno of grace he carried around was too quiet and too intimate against the pull of her shadows, bringing light to what should have been kept dark. It stopped now. She'd made a mistake, indulging foolish fantasies, and she'd be damned twice over if she allowed that to happen again.

Dark eyes sized the angel up, the disposition she wore reminding Castiel of how fierce she really was despite her size. "Why are you here?"

"You called me."

Her glare was stained with angry derision. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you—" Castiel broke off, deciding that arguing would be pointless. Instead, he sighed and held up his phone. "You left me a message."

Oh. That kind of call.

Meg bent to recollect her weapon, relaxing somewhat. She played it off as easily as she might have dusted entrails from her sleeve. "About the dog-faced boys, right." She met his eyes, looking him over—dark, handsome, and sternly primitive as eddies of nature so often were. There was a muted surprise hiding behind that stone façade, and it was maddening. Feeling rage blaze from a snarling ember, Meg flashed him a disparaging smile. Her beauty was stunning but cold, that familiar mockery resurfacing in spite of his diplomacy. "What?" she began, quirking a brow at his look. "You didn't think I'd suddenly start reneging on our deal, did you?"

The question was posed as a challenge, practically daring him to throw some retort her way. But Castiel was already averting his eyes, suddenly restless. "I'm not sure what I thought."

He didn't trust those shimmering teeth or that incisive stare. More than that, he wasn't sure he trusted himself.

"You've proven yourself thus far," he admitted.

Meg approached him, and the angel took a hesitant step back—not aloof, per se, but definitely distancing himself. She couldn't really blame him. She'd been hiding like a child too, before finally sacking up. Still… at his slight retreat, Meg was bitterly amused. She held up the note with the new locations, and Castiel took it grudgingly without a word.

"I'm tickled I could inspire the angel's approval," she drawled out, autumn eyes glittering as they grew colder and colder. "Makes me feel all warm inside."

"That's likely the hellfire."

A single dark eyebrow crept for her hairline. "Was that a joke?"

"I don't make jokes."

"No shit."

He looked like he was ready to flutter off as he usually did, and Meg felt a sudden spark of her old disposition. A need to get under his skin, to assert some semblance of superiority and make up for the unsure footing after what happened between them.

When Castiel glanced at her again, she was suddenly beside him, honeyed stare too close and too perceptive. "Not regretting our little tryst already, are we?"

Although he physically didn't move, Castiel otherwise seemed to recoil from the question. His eyes arrowed away and back to hers, almost skittish. "Aren't you?" he muttered.

The demon shrugged, affecting indifference. Her confidence flared in the face of his unrest, and breathing was easier. She could deal with this. As long as he was suffering and shaken, she could pretend that she wasn't. "We don't really _do_ regret, Clarence." Castiel made a somewhat acknowledging sound, and Meg smirked. "Still, the blushing angel thing is cute."

Turning on her heel, she presented him with her back and trotted away.

"You could have called me for assistance," he said after her, the catch in his voice revealing the regret he felt for saying anything more. Castiel's tone was low and wondering as Meg tossed him a glower over her shoulder. "Why didn't you?"

Pivoting sharply, the demon shook her head, curls falling around her face almost like armor. "Guess I got tired of ringing your bell. Like I said, Castiel, I can handle myself. I don't need you."

"I never implied that you did."

Meg laughed derisively and looked at him like he was her victim again, eyes sporting a glow that sang of triumph. "Yeah, well… your eyes say a lot more than your mouth does, angel." A taunting, jeering grin stretched across the space between them, both daring him to fight back and dismissing him completely. "Now, buzz off."

Castiel stewed in silence for awhile, becoming angry at her cavalier attitude. "You're a good liar, Meg," he said eventually, bitter and flat. "I think if I was human, I might believe you." At the inquiring defiance in her expression, he elaborated. "Your smoke flickers when you're being untruthful."

He knew she'd been just as affected as him. She was fooling no one.

Meg's smile fell a little, her features becoming agitated and flushed. Castiel, however, felt little satisfaction out of bringing her down to his level.

There was a soft flutter of wings, and the demon could do little else but stare at the empty space where he had been.

* * *

_child, don't follow me home_   
_you're just too perfect for my hands to hold_   
_if you choose to stay, you'll throw it all away_   
_and I just want to take your innocence_

* * *

Lucifer told her:

_You will make him yours. Then, when the time comes, you will make him mine. I want Castiel for this war, child. Do you understand?_

_Why? What's so special about him?_

Meg wasn't stupid. She could tell there was something more to this angel the second she laid eyes on him in that ring of fire. But like a dog with a bone, she couldn't let it rest. She wanted to know the reason for it. He wasn't like anything else she'd seen before.

_You will soon see._

The devil left her with more questions than answers, which was no surprise. After that, with Satan locked away, her mission was all but extinguished. Lucifer wasn't getting out of the Cage, not without one hell of a magic trick—and one far beyond even her reach. But Meg was driven by something else entirely in her pursuit of the angel Castiel.

Curiosity.

There was something else that lingered, too—idle and smothered at first in the back of her mind. Something she couldn't put a name to. Something that became clearer and startling the more time they spent together.

It wasn't love.

It couldn't be love.

But whatever it was, she couldn't go through one deal or one night raising hell on the town without her thoughts inevitably drifting back to that goddamn angel. He was everywhere—at the bottom of her whisky glass, inside the shadows of every alleyway, distracting her from fights, behind every blue-eyed bastard who gave her a second look. He was everywhere she didn't want him. If she slept, Meg figured he'd be in her dreams, too.

She had to get rid of him, but he was in her bones. His light had left a mark on her smoke and the demon knew she was cleaner in ways that could never again be tarnished. Castiel was a poison that was slowly giving her life instead of taking it away, and she _resented_ him for it.

Many nights, she wished they were back in that ring of fire, when it had been simple. At least then he'd made it clear where he thought she belonged. At least then he was her mission instead of the torch she carried, and the affliction that ran in her veins.

A thousand miles away, an angel ascended into battle and his thoughts were not of heaven or winning the war, but rather of a demon whose kiss had been too soft on the night that changed them both forever.

* * *

_you look in my eyes, I'm stripped of my pride_   
_my soul surrenders, and you bring my heart to its knees_   
_and it's killing me when you're away_   
_I want to leave, and I want to stay_   
_so confused, so hard to choose_   
_between the pleasure and the pain_

* * *

JANUARY 2011

The most entangled a person ever got was when they tried to convince their heads of something their hearts knew to be a lie.

_It wasn't love_. _It would never be love_.

Almost predictably, their fasting from each other didn't last.

The moon was high and full, taking advantage of another night. The cold ground rushed up at her fast and hard, making every tooth rattle in her skull as her cheek hit the dirt. Meg coughed against the creak of her own ribs, blinking away stars as a field of fur filled her spotted vision. A feral howl escaped from above her and soared towards the moon, deafening in its pain. She'd hurt it, badly, but there was no time for satisfaction because it hadn't stayed hurt for long.

Meg _hated_ werewolves.

She shuddered, drawing her broken arm up against her chest as she struggled to put some distance between herself and the thing she'd managed to royally piss off. Its fur was gray, silver on cheeks and shoulders, contrasting with the almost black underside and ears—one of which was mangled, like a chunk had been torn away as a badge of some former fight. Drops of blood and venom dripped from its muzzle, glistening on tusk-like teeth. Its eyes were unlike any animal's—irises an arctic storm, dark sclera halos and malevolent intelligence shining bright beneath the surface.

Meg remembered everything around her being calm and then suddenly, like a feeling from hell, a sense that something was about to go very wrong. In the midst of her own little hunting venture, the trees began to hum with a thousand voices—owls, other nocturnal animals, plenty of insects—and then everything had just _stopped_. She'd felt all her hair stand on end, a wave of cold crawling up her neck, until all she knew was pain. She remembered the feel of her arm being seized in a clawed grasp, the bone breaking as if it was a match. What followed was a little foggy, if the bloody gash torn into her head was at all indicative. The demon had fought back, because Meg _always_ fought back, and if it had been any other werewolf she would have wiped the forest floor with it and turned it to kibble. But as it was becoming terribly clear, in her hunt for the alpha, she'd gone and found the fucking thing.

Its incoherent ramblings while in bestial form were disjointed and hard to follow at first—not that Meg was particularly interested in whatever wolfy bullshit it was spewing. Observably, she was much more concerned with staying alive, which was an endeavor that was going over about as well as an amputee in a foot race. It wasn't until halfway through its tirade that Meg realized it was actually speaking another language. Norse, if she had to guess.

_Fucking fantastic_.

It crept towards her now on strong legs, healing quickly. A spark of sanity flickered behind that wild glare, which was perhaps worse than any madness. "Your King mutilated and tortured my children, you putrescent waste." The accusation spilled from its maw in a guttural snarl, curling over her injured body like death.

"Not. _My_. King," she managed between grit teeth, then cried out around an explosion of pain as it dug razor claws into her leg and dragged her forward.

"Enough, demon!" It snapped frothing jaws at her, and Meg's heaving pants stuttered out into another scream as the flesh of her leg was rent away beneath an angry swipe. "If the price my children pay with their lives is in the name of Crowley's hunt for Purgatory, then you too should know the fetid hell of that unspeakable place." Hot breath slammed against her face, and Meg fought to writhe her way out of the vice grip holding her down. "Whether demons are consigned there in death remains to be seen, but you will know my name as the last thing you hear before your own screams, hell bitch. I am _Fenris!_ And my children of the moon will be avenged!"

_Ah, hell_ , Meg thought angrily, beginning to panic. She had no idea if it could actually kill her, but she wasn't keen on finding out. Human eyes slicked to an oily black in the face of the massive jaws bearing down on her, and the demon cast out her power in a last ditch effort to stall. She threw her head back, eyes wiring shut, good arm shoved against matted fur with waning strength, and called out in the loudest voice she could muster.

"CASTIEL!"

She had no silver on her to speak of, there was none around that she could fashion into a crude weapon, and she was about to have her head torn off by the alpha werewolf. Meg shouted again, angrier now and shamefully frantic as her strength gave out, demonic will shattering like broken glass.

_Too tired, too distracted, too stupid to watch your fucking back!_

The ferocious roar closing in from above her nearly drowned out the fluttering of wings.

Fenris gave a startled bark, and Meg gasped out as the crushing weight suddenly left her. In its place stood Castiel, looking put out at first by her prayer, stern and chastising as he towered over the felled demon. However, upon realization of the circumstances and then seeing the state she was in, the angel became positively furious. Whirling from her with an expression of wrath, Castiel seized the charging alpha around its meaty throat and brought it slamming down against the earth with an impact that shook the trees.

At the abusive maneuver, Fenris snarled and fought back, much larger than the angel pinning him down. It clawed at grace and flesh, gaining purchase and closing powerful jaws around a trenchcoated shoulder. Castiel felt his arm wrench from the socket as he was rolled over and tackled into some brush. His eyes lit up with an inhuman force, reacting violently, and he unleashed his grace in punishing reply. He dug his hands into the wolf's coarse hide as it reeled from the assault, hurling it against a nearby tree so hard the timber split in half.

Castiel rose to his feet, a bit flustered but now completely incited. His shoulder was a mass of fiery pain, an annoying distraction, so he shook it back into place with a grunt. In front of him, claws raked over dirt and rock, gaining purchase as the werewolf sprung forward again. Castiel checked each attack, radiating a fierce determination that slowly fell away to indecision.

Crowley needed this alpha. Which meant the war— _Heaven_ —needed this alpha. Yet, if Castiel captured and delivered Fenris to Crowley, it could very well reveal how he'd answered to the prayer of a demon. That he'd saved this demon—saved _Meg_. That in turn would open up a line of questioning from Crowley that the angel wasn't sure he could thwart. Questions about Meg, about his association with her. Questions that could put her in jeopardy.

Crowley still wanted her dead and would perhaps even use Castiel in some way to see that she ended up that way. The King of Hell was by no means reasonable, and it was all a murky maze of unknowns, which left Castiel conflicted and very confused. If he killed this alpha, that was one step away from Purgatory. From winning the war. If Fenris was dead, progress would be sacrificed—and for what? A demon that meant nothing to him?

_You owe nothing to her. You are a soldier. You will sacrifice_ nothing _that could hinder this mission._

Castiel wasn't sure if the voice in his head was his own or some disembodied remnant of righteous thought. It didn't matter. An image of Meg filled his head then, lying broken and bloody on the ground beneath him after being ripped apart by this werewolf. Images of her at the mercy of Crowley were quick to follow, haunting his mind in stunning ways he couldn't begin to resolve.

Castiel felt the flesh of his vessel's face split open, and the ephemeral pain was like a lightning strike of clarity that rushed straight to his bones. The voice was forgotten. Sights zeroing in, he caught Fenris by the upper limbs, eyes flashing. Jaws snapped in his face as Castiel wrestled the beast to the ground in a ruthless display of strength. The alpha roared, launching violent attacks against him until it was nearly broken free. Mere moments away from sinking daggered fangs into the angel's throat, holy steel suddenly pierced the underside of its jaw, driven straight up into its brain.

Light burst from the wound and Fenris gave a tortured howl. The werewolf fought against the death burrowing in with cold finality, ancient and undeniably powerful—nearly stronger than the will of Castiel's blade. Not taking chances, the angel slammed his palm against the creature's forehead, drowning it in holy fire to make sure it was finished and would stay finished.

After a moment of searing flesh and blinding light, Castiel withdrew his blade and allowed the carcass to drop at his feet. He mentally shed the effects of the fight, what few wounds he had beginning to heal over. He turned and caught sight then of the small demon still huddled on the ground, hurt and trembling but with a shit-eating smirk on her face that belied the state she was in.

"Well, aren't you a sight for black eyes," Meg gasped around broken ribs. The usual snark was watered down by pain and exhaustion, and with a groan her head thumped back into the dirt. _Christ_.

The angel was looking stern and bothered again, trying to ignore the bitter relief in her voice and how his grace settled now that she was out of danger. "Are you alright?"

"I just had the shit kicked out of me by Old Yeller. What do you think?"

He'd just saved her, yet she appeared to be angry with him. Infuriating creature. Castiel crossed the short distance and crouched down beside her. "Gratitude wouldn't be out of place," he remarked offhandedly, but his eyes as they combed over her were gentler than before. "Here. I'll transport you somewhere safe."

Meg weakly grasped his outstretched hand, wincing in preparation. "My hero," she muttered.

There was a nauseating yank of pressure in her gut, and then they were gone.

* * *

_I tell myself that you're no good for me_   
_I wish you well, but desire never leaves_   
_I could fight this 'til the end_   
_but maybe I don't want to win_

* * *

Her jacket was off and draped over the old dining chair in the motel room, leaving behind the spackled fuchsia tank top she usually wore. Lip split, temple still oozing blood, Meg thought she must have been a sight to look at. She held her broken arm close to her borrowed body, favoring her ribs and gritting her teeth when Castiel secured the bandage around her jean-clad thigh a little too tightly.

"I can deal with this myself," she asserted, for what was surely the dozenth time.

"Be quiet."

Since their arrival, Castiel's only response to her abrasive temperament was to be an unfriendly prick. He took most of her resistance as an invitation to lecture her, citing that she'd gotten herself into enough trouble without him—and also booze and dishrags were no way to deal with wounds.

The demon huffed out an irritated and very impatient growl. "Can't you just zap me better? This is taking forever."

"I'm not healing you."

Meg's glare could have burnt a hole through his face, were he a lesser being. She'd always hated that he healed faster than she did. Didn't _want_ his help, and yet begrudged the asshole for leaving her high and dry; for patching her up the old fashioned way, of all things. He seemed supercharged since last she saw him—he could sure as hell spare some grace to fix her up proper. But he wouldn't. And he wasn't exactly gentle, either.

Castiel moved on to her arm, inspecting it clinically and ignoring Meg's string of derisive remarks. At a particularly rough grab, she yanked away her hand with a curse. "Some bedside manner wouldn't kill you, Ratchet."

"It wouldn't," Castiel conceded, meeting her eyes briefly. "Though it's an inconvenience I'd rather put aside in favor of getting this over with."

Angry, and perhaps even stung, Meg's tone took on a note of real venom. "If it was such an _inconvenience_ to save my ass from becoming puppy chow, you should have just let him kill me." Refusing his touch, she withdrew from him and scowled at his bewildered expression. "If I'd known you were gonna be such a dick about it, I wouldn't have wasted your precious time."

In wake of her puzzling outburst, the angel floundered a bit. He was temporarily at a loss, unable to understand why his words upset her or why she'd take them so personally. Something seemed to click though a moment later, and the harsh lines of his expression gradually fell. "I meant for your sake," he said, looking sheepish now. "You seemed… averse. To having me touch you."

She'd thought he meant tending to her was beneath him. It was fleeting, but Castiel regretted giving her that impression. While it was true he was irritated, experiencing a dismal frustration for having killed an alpha, he did stand behind his decision—even if it hovered uncertainly in the back of his mind as to whether it was the right decision to make.

"It's no inconvenience to look after you. If I had somewhere else to be, I would go."

Meg seemed assuaged by that, if somewhat floored by the muttered consideration. The little treetopper was just one surprise after another these days—which might have been charming, if it weren't so confounded. When he said things like that to her it was very… daunting. Just another reason for them to go back to the mortal enemies shtick and to shed whatever after effects of that night lingered too heavily over them still.

If only she was able to adhere to that sentiment like any person with good sense would. But… ever since she could remember, her blood had been powered by defiance.

Smothering the reaction beneath a look of indifference, Meg lifted a shoulder to shrug, allowing him to tend to her again. "Well. Being touched by an angel isn't so bad. It's usually the self-righteous pigheadedness that kills the mood." The demon gave him a deliberately stirring onceover, a smirk curling the edges of her mouth just barely. "Nix the holier than thou attitude, maybe I'll warm up to you again."

Castiel sighed, attempting to ignore that look and all it implied. Lest he remind her, they didn't talk about that. He secured the last fastenings around her arm, gaze lingering too long on the milky expanse of smooth skin before he turned his attention to the injuries on her face. "Was that the alpha?" he asked, deciding that a subject change was in order. He knew Fenris was the alpha, but wondered if Meg did. Anything that got his mind off the memory of that skin and how it had felt against his would be a welcome reprieve.

"Yeah, in all its glory. Sure lived up to the title, didn't he?"

"Fenris," the angel acknowledged with a wise and pensive frown. "What I know of him is very little, but he was a god, in his own right."

"Trying to make me feel better for getting my ass kicked?"

Castiel's glance was somewhat dry. "Just stating a fact."

"Mmhmm."

Not for the first time, she wondered how he'd so effortlessly dominated that fight. As a general rule, angels were considered vastly more powerful than demons, true, but Fenris may as well have been a bug under her little treetopper's heel. The alpha wolf, who was apparently considered to be _godlike_ in strength, had stood no chance. Even on her worst day, Meg was a terror in battle, and yet she'd nearly been decimated. She thought again of how supercharged Castiel seemed lately, but wasn't given enough time to properly dwell on it before he was speaking again.

"Why were you hunting him?"

Meg's eyes narrowed at the reproachful tone of his voice. "Same reason I was hunting those vampires," she said. " _Answers_. I want to know what the hell Crowley was up to before you went and turned him into a charcoal briquette." Castiel had the decency to appear abashed, almost wary now as he averted his eyes from her. Meg mistook the evasiveness for chagrin, and his next words seemed to solidify that notion.

"It was impulsive, killing him like that. I should have trapped him, questioned him."

"Do you see me crying? Ding dong, the bastard's dead."

He paused a moment, reconciling Meg's odd idioms with what they entailed. "And the werewolf?"

Dark eyes rolled as he pressed the issue. "Guess I went and stuck my nose a little too close to where it didn't belong."

Castiel did his best to hide a chastising look. "A habit, I've noticed."

"Fuck you too, Grumpy."

Looking slightly disgruntled, he nonetheless deigned to ignore that. Reaching for the bottle of rubbing alcohol, Castiel blotted a bit onto the cloth he held. "So, you were reckless."

Meg flashed him a tight grin that was all teeth. "What can I say, it's a problem."

He'd noticed that, too. More, he thought of how visibly drained she was, even given the fight she'd just been in. How… _vexed_. This demon was not a creature to be trifled with, a fact he knew intimately well. But Meg wasn't resting, at least that much was clear. She was pushing her limitations, tempting her luck, and needlessly so. Even demons required the occasional respite. Castiel considered saying as much, but wondered if she might attack him for it.

"Took me off guard," she admitted then, only confirming his thoughts. Her candor surprised him. "You go looking for the big bad wolf, you don't always expect to find him under the first rock you step on. Might have stood a chance if I'd been ready."

"Perhaps," Castiel granted, pressing the cloth over the wound at her temple.

Meg grimaced a bit at the sting, then narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't pretend to humor me," she said. It was a little scornful, but the angel didn't bite.

"I wasn't. It'd take a fool to underestimate how powerful you are." The cloth came away red, and Castiel frowned. He didn't notice the fleeting look of surprise on her face, or the spark of something darker that followed. Instead, as he stared into the stained material he held, Castiel hesitated. "Did he… say anything to you?"

That earned him a puzzled scowl. "Not a lot of talking going on." He supposed that rang true. Before he could relax, though, Meg spoke up again. "But… there was something about Crowley looking for Purgatory. Some revelation, huh?" she said, sharing sentiment with the angel's rather stunned reaction to the news. If anything, Castiel looked as if he'd seen a ghost. "More reason for him to be roasted and toasted. Opening up monster land is pretty crazy, even for me. Now that he's dead, I guess it doesn't really matter anymore, but still… any foggy notion as to why the hell he'd be stupid enough to pull a stunt like that?"

Tensing, Castiel withdrew. "No," he murmured, looking away. A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he began busying himself with the medical supplies.

It was silent for a moment, and the demon considered him beneath the arc of her brow. "You knew he was torturing the alphas for Purgatory, didn't you?" The barefaced guilt in his eyes made her laugh. "Let me guess, the angels are chasing their tails along with rest of us. No one knows the answer to the underworld's biggest riddle. Well, I'm betting the cheeky dillhole was looking for real estate. Lot of power stashed away in a place like that."

"I suppose that's a reasonable assumption," Castiel said, slanting his gaze back to hers.

He was stonewalling her, as usual. That was nothing new—something she'd even grown to expect. At this point, she was starting to find it endearing.

"Speaking of the family," Meg nudged his knee with hers, "how are things in the attic?"

His jaw went stiff, and the glance he spared her was fleeting and empty. "Not well."

It couldn't have been a more obvious hedge of the topic if he'd tried, although Meg wondered herself what compelled her to ask. At the mere mention of the war, the angel seemed to clam up, his tone becoming short. Meg nudged him again, hoping to draw some pissy rejoinder out of him—if only to ensure that some normality could return between them. "Chin up, Atlas. No better chump to hold up the world than you."

_My hero_ , she called him earlier. The notion was absurd in many ways, almost a mockery of the situation he'd found himself stuck in. Castiel shook his head at the diverse memories and of all his rotten deeds that were executed to ensure victory. He grew very somber in that reflection, almost defeated. "I'm no hero," he said quietly. The air in the room seemed suddenly heavy between them, much of his energy withering. "I'm just doing the best I can."

She had no idea the sins living under his name, and Castiel wondered why he was confiding in her at all. It seemed perverse, to be spilling those doubts at her feet—certainly unwise on his part to be exhibiting such vulnerability in front of a demon. But whenever he looked at her, those eyes and the tarnished soul beneath compelled it from him. Castiel felt that he couldn't hide from her, that she saw too much, and he worried how well that perceptiveness might see right through him. Not only to reveal the lies he told to those around him, but most of all the lies he told himself. The fears, his battle-worn disillusionment, the profound ache in his chest at what she instilled in him—it was all so crushing. So confusing.

"Stuff it, cherub cakes," Meg teased in a softer voice, drawing him out of those harrowing thoughts. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy the flattery."

"I'm a Seraph. Not a Cherub."

She made a quiet, interested sound as she watched him tend to her. "Daddy must have given you an upgrade, how impressive. Lucy told me you were only a Power."

God had, in fact. The day Sam leapt into the Cage. But that was no business of hers. Castiel's gaze as it was set on her now grew heated and brusque. "Don't speak about him."

Oh, she'd missed that fire. Missed its burn.

Meg's dark eyes rose slowly to meet his. " _Him_ being… your Creator, or mine?"

" _Neither_."

The mention of Lucifer brought him grief and resentment, especially when Meg seemed to speak of him so fondly. What sort of creature followed their god so blindly and without conscience was beyond him. And then it hit him.

_I would. And have_.

The uncomfortable realization was shoved down and out of the way where he wouldn't need to dwell on it. He was nothing like this demon. Castiel repeated that to himself silently, more than once, just to be sure he was convinced.

"Sorry, Clarence," Meg droned around a disarming smile, chasing that fire. "Old habits, remember?"

She was doing it again. Missing was that surly reticence, replaced by sultry provocation. It had been her favorite form of torment before the game she played crashed down around their ears. There had to be a reason for her sudden relapse, but Castiel tried not to think about it, avoiding those memories as neatly as shadows fled the light. Something else was bothering him too, and so he focused his ruminations there. "When you called for me… what made you so sure I would come?"

By the look on her face, she hadn't been expecting that. A little thrown, Meg seemed to bristle before eventually replying. "I don't know." Her gaze was sharp as she studied his face, trying to pry into his thoughts the way he seemed to be doing with her. "But you did, didn't you? With bells on. I wonder why."

Castiel smoothed the cloth once more against the wound on her face, eyes darting to hers and seeming stormy. "It doesn't matter why."

His proximity was suddenly too intoxicating, and Meg grabbed at his wrist with tight fingers, drawing it down. "I don't just mean today." Her voice held an interrogative edge, heedless of the warning look in his eyes and how he regarded her grip like he was about to swat it like a gnat. "After our little encounter, I figured you'd have run for the hills by now. That I'd never see you again."

Goddamn it, this was a road she'd been desperate to avoid. But the words tumbled from her lips without her consent, disembodied from the voice in her head that demanded she run from him now while she could. But, like any good moth…

"I could say the same to you," Castiel said in retaliation, becoming visibly agitated. Meg was unpredictable, and he hated that. It was bad enough trying to follow along with the Winchesters' mercurial moods, but this demon was all over the map. It was as though she behaved that way just to toy with him, the sole purpose of her existence being to torment his. Perhaps the notion bore testament to an inflated sense of his own ego or worth in her eyes, but Castiel saw no other reason for it.

More importantly, why could they not stop themselves from ending up here? Angel and demon both had been determined to erase any and all former intimacy, and yet her skin was a branding iron against his, the pull of her smoke once more a siren call against his restraint—too intense and yet not enough. Never enough. Her companionship, however antagonistic, was something he'd come to rely on; sought after in ways that were criminal of him. He had to stop this. Why could he not stop this?

"You are… beyond me." Not beneath. Beyond. The discrepancy was nearly missed in his futile protest as Castiel struggled towards understanding her. The barest mention of their sexual affair weeks before had incited her rage and yet here she was tempting him again. "For days, you fled me. _Weeks_. You said it was nothing, and so it was. Why now then do you—"

"Sorry, sweetheart," Meg said, becoming cross at his dodging. "Demon has the floor now. Answer the question."

Castiel pulled his wrist away with quiet force, glaring into her face as it hovered near his. The light above their heads flickered idly. "I am not your _sweetheart_. And I'm certainly not obligated to do anything you say." His eyes had grown colder, volatile. The lines in his forehead were more defined now, possessing the expression of a marble statue intent on vilifying her. "I saved your life, Meg. You're the one indebted to _me_."

He rarely used her name. Rather, the name she went by. Somewhere, deep down, Meg thought that might have meant something. The need to rile him was too overpowering for her to wonder about it, so instead she peered over the edge of that frying pan and into the flames. "And how exactly would you like me to repay you?"

Castiel lost some of that defiance. The tone she wielded now was too dangerous for his peace of mind—if it had been a threat, he could handle that. Threats from her were nothing, expected even. But that voice, low and intimate, sent about a thousand warning bells off in his head and a jolt of electricity straight down to his core. "With _silence_ ," he soon replied, but there was less conviction to it than he'd intended.

There was no mountain he wouldn't move to comprehend just a _piece_ of her. Her motivations were so unclear and it was _maddening_. He could feel himself slowly losing his mind over it, over her. What sanity he had took one hit after another, staggering over unsteady ground and towards the ebbing chasm between them.

He could _feel_ her and he wasn't even touching her.

Meg seemed bitterly amused by his response, and with a derisive snort she shook her head. "You sure know how to make a girl's nethers quiver, don't you?"

She felt his rage, sudden and violent, coursing through his vessel. "You shouldn't say things like that to me."

"Why?" Meg pressed, enjoying his reaction because it validated hers. He had that look, the one that hovered between wrath and passion. A part of her was terrified for it, as it dredged up memories from the night of their fall, of feelings that neither of them could explain away. The other, more wicked part of her was encouraged by it. "Afraid you like it too much when I do?"

" _Yes_."

She wasn't ready for that husky, conflicted voice, or the way he practically growled the word at her in helpless inclination. By the look on Castiel's face, he hadn't meant to say it either. Blue eyes were dark with want and confusion, with something desperate, and all she could think then was _damn that curiosity_. Damn whatever this was between them. It was predatory and consuming and she couldn't breathe it bore down against her so destructively.

"What, did you finally run out of pious denial?" Before she even realized she was reaching for him, quick as lightning he'd snatched her hand and pulled it from his face, maintaining that glare of death he kept reserved just for her. Meg laughed with dark satisfaction, as though it were nothing—which only infuriated him. The fact that she was always laughing at things he found no humor in usually served to provoke him, but then Castiel rarely found anything amusing at all. "You said I shouldn't be underestimated. Tell me why that is."

She needed to know.

More than anything, she needed to hear him say the words.

Castiel looked loath to answer, but he didn't leave her waiting long. "I've seen what you can do, Meg." His voice scraped low, a sound that rolled through her despite everything. "You killed a pack of hellhounds singlehandedly with my blade. _My_ weapon, which should obey only me. You were the Winchesters' first enemy, before they even knew Azazel's name, and you survived. _No one_ survives. No one escapes them. Not even Lucifer could." He saw the way she hung on his every word, enamored with him and the way he built her up even against his better judgment. She could get drunk on the way he was looking at her now. The unmistakable lust in his eyes was better than any adrenaline rush. "You're more than what you've fallen to. You're distracted."

"You think I'm distracted by _you_?"

Castiel heard the slight tinge in her incredulous retort, wild and uncertain. He stared down into her eyes, not sure what to do as he felt her hands pull at his coat in muted accusation. "Regardless," he began lowly, fraying at the edges under the weight of her touch, "you were brave enough once to call out an angel when he was the one getting… sloppy. Consider this as me returning the favor."

"I don't need favors from you."

Meg told herself didn't want any part of the effect he had on her, but she _did_. She'd had _no_ intention of ever reliving those breathless, carnal moments with him again, but she was _desperate_ to. She just wanted to feel alive again—to forget the hand she'd been dealt and the bounty on her head. The way Castiel was looking at her now…? So did he.

"What _do_ you need from me, Meg?"

Those last words and the way he said them did her in. "Just can't say no to a damsel in distress, can you? That's why you came running when I called. That little light of yours is wrapped around my finger, nice and tight." Another flat, bitter laugh. "You play being righteous, Cas, but the truth is you got a taste of something bad and you _liked_ it."

Blue eyes flashed dangerously. "You're no damsel."

The abrupt change, her voice rough and her eyes too dark should have warned him. They glittered with something obscure, but it wasn't evil. Something much worse.

Hope.

"Maybe not. But I'm not wrong, am I? I'm as bad as they come, and you're just _aching_ for another taste, aren't you?" He wasn't the only one hungry for more. Wasn't the only one left shaken and stripped raw. "You want to know what I need?" demanded Meg, drawing him closer, the seduction back in her voice. "I need that memory _gone_ , Castiel. Make it disappear. Make me forget."

This time would be different. It had to be. He'd bow to her, and the world would make sense again. She just needed something to make sense again.

The demon abruptly pushed forward, lips snatching against his as every resolve shattered. The touch was like a needle to a junkie and ripped his skin apart, whispering lovely, burning pain. Castiel felt the cold in her veins as his pulse jumped, and he lost all ability to breathe. A groan tore itself from his throat, and every instinct he had leapt to obey her needs. She tasted like ash, like the apple in the Garden. Just like he remembered and had desired ever since.

Meg bit and teased at his mouth, swallowing his livid protest, almost frantic to draw a reaction out of him and then reveling in the way he started to respond to her. Deeply, messily, hungrily. Castiel's own thoughts turned mutinous as they tangled in his head; thoughts of having her again, of having her always —needing her again and _now_ , or he might somehow die. That weakness embittered and infuriated him.

Like holy water splashing against her skin, the angel's hands were suddenly steel clamps over her shoulders and he gave her a forceful push back.

"Don't," he said—with that deep, growling voice that did so much on its own. " _Don't_."

He was dazed, temper like a furnace and spewing silent threats with his eyes. The blue was practically swallowed by his blown out pupils, and Meg felt the electric current where his skin touched hers. She glared back into his face as they both struggled to catch their breath, ignoring the way his tight grip aggravated her arm. "Then let go," she told him. Her voice held the cut of a knife, challenging with so few words and yet communicating so much more.

He didn't.

Meg stuck her nose right in his face again, hooking her leg around the back of his knee and dragging both the angel and the chair he sat on closer across the peeling linoleum. "I'm already healing and that big bad wolf is fifty shades of dead. Heaven's calling, and you're not answering. So drop the bullshit and ask yourself why you're _really_ still here."

Unable to look away from her, Castiel seethed against his racing thoughts. There was no answer that wouldn't damn him. "You," he managed out, angry and winded and feeling like she had won something from him. Not even caring, just needing—feeling almost drugged as his eyes dropped to her waiting mouth.

He wouldn't be able to stop. He did not _want_ to stop. Heaven help him, retreat was the furthest thing from his mind.

Meg flashed a smile was pure triumph, empowered by that confession. Castiel felt the curve of it just barely graze his lips as she leaned into him. "The fall hurts less the second time around," she whispered, breath wafting hot over his skin as their noses brushed. "Just close your eyes and enjoy the rush."

"You think I enjoy this?" Castiel asserted, drawing back just enough so that she could see the resentment pouring out of him. The denial sounded empty even to his own ears, and so the grin she wore in the face of it came as no surprise.

"This pretty body you're wearing says you do."

Fuck it. She was a demon. And she wanted something. She'd take it.

Gone was her need to run, that shock of fear she'd felt before dissolving around them in place of something else. Maybe they were both addicts. The words were barely out of her mouth before Castiel was kissing her again, bringing her to life again. With surprising force, Meg's fingers closed around his tie and coat so that she could haul him to his feet and propel him around. Both chairs clattered to the floor as their positions were swapped, and she shoved against his chest until the backs of his legs hit the bed.

"You're still injured," said the angel errantly, but there was no concern in the words, just flat desire. He hissed in a breath as both of her hands slid under his coat to trail down his back, shedding the layer from him completely.

"And you're still a pain in the ass." Meg pushed a hand into his hair, her other hand fisting into the white dress shirt he wore. "You asked what I needed. Here's your answer. Put up or shut up."

With another brutal shove, Castiel found himself on his back, Meg falling with him and crawling to straddle his waist. Like every time before, both were stunned and set on fire at the touch of their mouths in combination with their bodies. The sensation of sparks raining down around them flared like a match being struck.

Deft fingers dug into his chest through his shirt, working at the buttons as his hands and lips demanded her closer. Meg felt like herself again as she shoved open the white material, leaning down to nip at his jawline, feeling the pressure of the angel's power wherever he touched her.

There was no describing the agony she gave him as Castiel leaned into her mouth when it found his again. He felt adrift as ever that he couldn't reconcile this strong attachment he harbored. This demon, _Meg_ —she was a poison too familiar. Too… _precious_. Even in the midst of those revelations, he fought to dominate her every move, almost in spite of it—and although he was much stronger, something about the illusion of struggle was invigorating. He was losing ground either way, having wanted so badly to touch her again since learning the beauty of it. To hold her, fall with her in the most intimate way two beings could. Sex disguised that need as a heat of the moment consequence, where it was allowed to mean nothing and expected to be indulged. They both took advantage of that distraction, even as they blinded themselves against its too familiar pull.

Angry infatuation clashed with heartfelt desire, their fevered sounds mingling in dazed bliss. Confounded and just barely withstanding it, Meg explored his body with hers—touching, moving, drawing white hot sensations to the surface in wake of the emotion trying to claw its way free.

At Castiel's breathless reply, her voice went deceptively gentle even as her hands and body continued to speak in ways her lips would never. "Feels good?"

The angel choked down another tortured groan at whatever magic she was doing to him. His eyes fell shut, expression showing how he regretted taking pleasure from it.

"Can't hear you."

Castiel nodded faintly. "Yes," he said, hands sliding beneath her shirt to feel that skin again. He wanted to be a part of her again. Wanted that skin pressed up against his, cold and burning all at once until every coherent thought abandoned him. " _Yes_."

His voice was tight and fiercely submissive, and Meg drew back just a little, their bodies still touching as she regarded him beneath a conquering smile. "Angels. So _obedient_ ," she breathed into his mouth, drawing the tie out of his collar with a snap of fabric. He looked positively wrecked; chest heaving with panting breaths, hair in disarray, blue eyes startlingly bright and full of inclinations an angel had no business with. That raw nature was something Meg wasn't used to seeing there, and it was breathtaking. The sight of him looking like that, a creature of nearly limitless power— _wanting_ her, staring up at her in rapture as though she was some kind of goddess—it was a shock of life that went straight to her heart.

An even darker delight bloomed at the nebulous of her smoke when the angel surged up and crushed her to his chest, yanking at the ends of her hair in some form of righteous protest. Meg laughed as she pushed back into him, tongue swiping against his bottom lip and drawing it into her mouth to distract him from the bite of her teeth. Castiel pulled away and growled low against her neck at the very deliberate roll of her hips.

" _Amma aishh_ ," he said into sweat-damp skin, the words knifing through her like a Kurdish blade.

The power of it made her bones rattle. However, the furious adoration of his tone did something else to her entirely. "Cas…" she murmured in a fraying voice. Her fingers sunk into his hair, tugging with something akin to tenderness even as she used her other hand to shove his shirt down over his shoulders. Her words broke into a reedy moan when Castiel pulled her flush into his lap and his mouth began marking a scorched trail down her collarbone. Her head tipped back, shivers cascading through her body and into his as they clung to each other.

"I will make you forget everything," Castiel promised.

He knew she hadn't meant just their first time. Meg was suffering beneath the weight of so much beyond her control—at war with herself and fighting alone against the armies of Hell.

"Good," she gasped, head thrown back, arms embracing him. The sincerity beneath the cold delivery of his words was a promise in and of itself. Softer, she said it again, brimming with relief. "Good."

Pale skin bore the taste of sulfur and heady promise beneath the brand of his lips, a maze of poetic irony Castiel ached to get lost in again. His fingers splayed against her ribcage as he hauled her against him tighter still, feeling the beast below the surface as she invaded his light, swallowing each other's throaty moans at the friction they created together. She'd wanted his anger and he poured it into her, wanting to punish her for not listening to him, for trying to force his hand. For making him want her so much that he didn't care about redemption or damnation.

Castiel grasped at her hips as her claws raked down his skin—pinching and pulling as their kiss became weighty and fire-filled. Composure had long ago been lost, discarded the way his coat had been, the way Meg's tank top had fluttered to the floor in a quick heap. More, as their mouths clashed thoughtlessly, Castiel felt her longing and despair—the way her thorns burrowed in, smoke curling around his light in a macabre embrace.

It felt… good. So _good_ to be _wanted_.

Castiel wasn't sure he'd ever felt wanted before, and it made him _greedy_. More than the demon would ever realize, he knew that darkness she felt. The loneliness. Heaven, he'd tried to forget how easy it was to want something he couldn't have. To want something _forbidden_. But her body fit against his too perfectly, true forms complementing the other's in ecstasy just as they did in battle. Castiel wondered how he'd ever thought it could be wrong for them to be together—not when it was like _this_.

But he was not pristine anymore.

The moment he would unleash creatures so vile and foul on the earth was many months away, but even as his intentions remained noble and good, he knew. His mental break was still only a shadow on the horizon, yet even now Castiel recognized the evil lying dormant in himself. The truth of the matter was that he was no better than her. No different at all, he realized, and perhaps that was the reason for their perfection.

Abominable.

Meg saw it, too. How he so desperately wanted to lose himself as much as she wanted to find him. The demon took his face in her hands and let out a reckless sound as she begged and demanded for him with all the conviction she didn't know she possessed. Hell on earth, he was _stunning_ —a thousand times better than anything she'd anticipated while imagining this moment the first time, or the second.

Embraces became punctuated by the delicious ache of bruises. Angel and demon molded and clashed—in all the wrong places, the _best_ places. It was all teeth and anger and despair too, because they were both so directionless. Neither of them had kings to serve anymore. Burying his face against her neck, Castiel held her smaller body tightly to his as she moved above him and muffled screams poured out of them both. Wrapped up in each other, neither knew how to prepare themselves for the rubble about to follow.

This thing between them, whatever it was, was the spark that would ignite and burn down the whole forest. Destroy everything they had ever been. That fire was a drug that impelled their mutual addiction—to it, and to each other. Such an outcome was ultimately inevitable.

As soldiers, they were both conquered and defeated, and this time there would be no going back.

* * *

_no, it's too much, burn my sun_   
_up in flames we go, you fire breather_   
_ash and dust on my door, smoke rise_   
_trying to survive inside your heart_   
_no, I can't stay away_

* * *

"Not gonna run away this time, are you?"

Castiel grunted a noncommittal reply, trying to ignore the feel of her and how energy and life and sensation were still cascading through him. "You ran away last time," he eventually muttered.

They laid entwined now in the darkness of the room together, the lights having been blown out again. Glass was scattered on the floor, sharp and waiting, and Meg hummed softly.

Her smaller body was like silk along his, soft mouth lingering over the frown he wore. Her tongue peeked out to tease his bottom lip, dragging slowly and too arousing. The angel's hands were on her sides then, charged and strong to push her away as he lay there, troubling over lost causes. Meg sank into the mattress with a wry chuckle, delighting too much in the cloud of self-loathing that hung over his head. It was shitty of her, but she liked this way better.

Ignoring the wordless dismissal, she slung an arm over his bare chest and settled into his side. "You're a hoot, Clarence. Don't poop out on me now." The affection was more needling than domestic—an act bent solely on making him as uncomfortable as she could. Regardless, he was already beyond compromised, so the thought of falling further was little more than a nagging voice in the back of his head now. "Keep pretending to hate me, though. Makes it easier."

Pretending to hate Meg did make it easier. But it mattered little now. Everything was off its axis, and Castiel was frankly surprised the universe hadn't somehow caved in on itself. The colossal foolishness of this entire affair… so much inherently _wrong_ , and yet the note of dread just wasn't enough to pierce through the faraway indifference that was still so new and foreign to him.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't speak."

Why was it that, in the midst of passion, he felt committed to her in every way—that she was the only source of light left in the world, one that he'd been searching for through eternity? A gem to be cared after and cherished— _protected_ at all costs. The thought of dishonoring her in any way was equally off-putting, yet now in the aftermath all he felt was a detached sense of aggravation for that weakness. For allowing her any sway over him at all. Was it his own conscience? An inborn righteous instinct, reminding him that she was his enemy—a thing to be feared and destroyed? An ache developed quickly behind his skull, leaving him at odds with himself. Castiel didn't want to think about it, didn't want to be reminded of where he was and of what they'd done yet again. It was too complicated, too confusing, and the demon seemed determined to shove it back in his face.

He knew she was overcompensating. Like before, Meg was just as unsettled and affected by the paradox as he was—she just hid it better this time.

At his words, she barely withheld the amused snort. Probing fingers traced invisible sigils over his throat and shoulder, ones that could probably damage him if written in blood. "You know, I'm shocked you don't have a girlfriend. Especially with pillow talk like that." Meg's voice was honey and vinegar in his ear. "Guess that's a no to the three kids and a poodle? I'll cancel the white picket fence."

There were claw marks running down his back again. A bite mark on his shoulder, bruises on her ribs. Castiel stared up at the ceiling, responding with his usual unimpressed tone. "If we spawned a child, it would be catastrophic."

"Aw, you think?" Meg fluttered her lashes to herself with feigned innocence, as though she really were wondering. The coy demeanor seemed absurd on her. "Little boy? Your killer looks, my nasty peepers? Sounds dreamy."

"If you want me to leave, just say so."

Her dulcet laughter burrowed its way under his skin, making it crawl, making it tingle with the memories of what they'd done only moments ago. The disembodied journey as she took him to a state of nirvana, exercising complete control over him. All the worries and fears he'd been consumed with fleeing his mind until he felt good, wonderful, amazing, _important_. Hurtling through unmistakable heights under her spell and crushing her close, face buried in her chest to muffle his soft groans while her arms and body embraced him. Like before, the unmistakable and terrifying wonder of release was unlike anything he'd ever known. Words of Enochian and Latin had spilled out into the space between them as their mouths sought each other's in the midst of shuddering ecstasy. She was a tempest, beyond exquisite.

This was what their first time should have been like, Meg thought. No earth-shattering emotion that left them in wreckage, just two beings helping each other survive the blinding pleasure and another night in a world bent on destroying them.

"Don't be such a killjoy." Without much preamble, she rolled on top of him again, dark hair forming a curtain around their faces. Tapered nails pressed impatiently into the meat of his arms, her brown eyes flashing black. Castiel was as good at this as she knew he would be. "Another round, cloudhopper? Your halo isn't quite bent enough yet."

_Wrong_. _So very wrong._

The angel glared up at her, pouring as much hatred and revulsion into the exchange as he physically could, although they both knew it meant nothing. Large hands were strong and hot at her hips with that same smoldering urge to snuff her out for good. It was _perfect_. It was what she'd been craving from him all along—passion as consuming as that ring of fire. She would take him to paradise and beyond, steal every last ounce of him and take it into herself. She would ruin and rebuild him, and in the end he would thank her.

"Do you know what you do to me?"

Castiel's voice was gravelly and rough, a threat buried somewhere there. Traces of accusation made the words more embittered, and Meg's lips pulled apart in a decidedly profane smile. Around him, smoke and thorns curled like a pit of snakes, through his skin and straight down to his light.

"Of course you do," he growled.

_Damn_ the consequences.

Meg's wicked laughter was like a death knell when, instead of destroying her, Castiel yanked her down and crashed his mouth into hers to start the fall all over again.

_That's my boy._

* * *

_she stole my soul from me_   
_her heart is cold and empty_   
_there's poison on her lips_   
_and I paid the price_   
_another victim of a love crime_

* * *

Delta Mendota was a truly pitiful excuse for a witch. One that had the special pleasure of getting on Meg's last fucking nerve.

Several years back, when Delta hovered at the cusp of her early teens, Crowley had been one smooth promise away from turning her to the smarmy dick side. Something about the Mendotas had snared his interest, and so for whatever reason, he'd sought out the last in a long line of mediocrity.

Meg, oblivious to the Mendota appeal, nonetheless had gotten to her first. After all, a fellow young woman was a better sell than some silk-tongued salesman, at least at the time. This would all have ended well and good, if not for the kicker.

For the last three stops in a row, Meg found herself choking down a mouthful of her own blood. Witches in general loved their little hex bags, but these were a damn nuisance to track down. The harder she looked and the more she used her power, the worse the effect became. Each and every time, Meg ended up porting herself to some new location, states away. Scavenger hunts were never her thing, and the entire ordeal left her pissy and vengeful.

The little shit owed her a soul claim, and apparently the time to pay up had floated by without Meg even realizing. She'd been too busy securing her rightful place in the infernal hierarchy to notice, but clearly Delta hadn't forgotten. It was the only explanation for the sudden witch problem that she could figure. The timeline fit, and as a rule, Meg otherwise avoided the bodily fluid spewing hags. It wasn't liked she'd gone and made enemies of the tribe without even realizing.

A dark thought occurred to her then, because were it any other circumstance… she would have suspected Crowley. He went through witches like toilet paper, often using them as mouthpieces and offshore eliminators. It was an ingenious way to snuff somebody without attaching your name to the deed, and one of Crowley's favored methods of dealing with headaches he felt were beneath him.

But Crowley was dead.

Meg reminded herself of this a few more times, frowning to herself in thought. Her actual interest in the soul was little—a simple loose end to be tied up—but now she was concerned with making sure Delta stayed the hell out of her way. She didn't need witches gumming up the works and causing trouble for her ascension back to the top. Assassination attempts always rubbed her the wrong way—and when Meg got rubbed the wrong way, she tended to get vicious. The setback was finding Delta so that violence could be delivered. Meg had no hellhounds under her command to fetch up the prize, not to mention that whatever varsity level magic Delta stumbled upon was one hell of a cloaking spell.

The whole situation smelled rotten, and Meg didn't like it.

Still… while she didn't have any chompers waiting at heel, she did have something better.

Drumming her fingers boredly on the cheap tabletop, the demon waited. The desk clerk had been in love the second he laid eyes on her, over the top in his efforts to impress her with the latest ratty dive she'd holed up in. The level of desperation would have been entertaining if it weren't so pathetic, and Meg counseled herself on patience when he stuffed her arms with extra towels, a bathrobe that reeked of pot, and a stack of magazines. Snapping and killing the poor bastard would do no one any favors, although the magazines were a guilty pleasure and they weren't months old either. Regardless… sometimes Meg wished she'd just taken some ripe truck driver as a meatsuit.

There had been a bowl of fruit waiting for her on the table when she arrived inside, and the strength of her eye roll was almost painful. After that, waiting was easy in comparison to the week she'd been having.

Her wrath bringer arrived at long last and with his usual brusqueness, curtains fluttering under the gust of wind that followed. Meg gave her guest a cursory onceover. "Hey, handsome. Decide to take the scenic route?"

When Castiel did little else but stand there looking put out, she gave him her best bedroom eyes, leaning back in the worn dining chair with her feet propped up. This was the sum of their relationship over the past several weeks—interaction kept sparse and by necessity, although any informational exchanges usually led to other things with them now.

"No kiss hello?"

The angel was rough around the edges, sporting a superficial gash over his eyebrow and a spattering of blood on his trenchcoat. The blade in his hand disappeared as he glanced around the motel room, already preoccupied with some distant responsibility. Inevitably, blue eyes fell on the empty bed before darting back to her waiting face, seeing something puckish there. Castiel's expression took on a note of weary suspicion at the sight.

"I'm not having intercourse with you right now."

Meg's cheeks dimpled with the strength of her smirk. He was too much fun sometimes. "How disappointing." She stalled a bit. "No need for that puritan sensibility, I called you for something else."

"And what is that?" Brow creasing, Castiel hazarded a step closer. The suspicion he felt before only grew at her prolonged silence, but when he squinted at her, the demon merely laughed. "That look usually means you want something. I only assumed."

"Touché, Clarence. I'd give you a gold star for catching on so quick, but… bigger fish." He was looking around restlessly again, seeming anxious, and Meg quirked an eyebrow as she reached for the bowl of fruit and plucked a few grapes. "In a hurry?"

"In _battle_ ," he replied, getting agitated now.

Meg leisurely popped a grape into her mouth. "I may have pissed off a witch."

Castiel deflated. "What?"

"Spare me the theatrics, would you? Your comebacks suck, anyways." The angel harrumphed impressively, but silenced whatever retort he had brewing. Meg was actually impressed by the restraint, even though she knew it wouldn't last. "Situation is she owes me, won't pony up, and apparently has decided that her best bet of erasing that snazzy black mark from her record is to play hide and gank with the boogeyman. Boogeyman is me, by the way. Long story short, my hackles are itchy."

Castiel's expression was flat as he absorbed her glib summary. "You mean you want me to go collect your _merchandise_?"

Meg scoffed. "Oh, please. Mendota the teenage witch isn't worth the migraine. The whole soul thing was a little side gig I had going to bide my time until we busted Lucifer out. Witches annoy the shit out of me, but I needed the juice. Sue me."

"What exactly do you need me for, then? Why not deal with her yourself?"

Dark eyes glinted as the demon imparted him with her sweetest smile. "Now why would I, when I have you?"

Lesser men had surrendered entire armies for that smile.

Castiel, though, remained unconvinced. "The more you say, the less I believe you."

His stony disapproval was as predictable as it was exasperating, and Meg countered it with an insolent stare of her own. "Yeah, how do you figure?"

His gaze was focused on her with laser precision, as if determined to analyze each breath she took. "You _want_ the soul, Meg. Claiming otherwise is a waste of both our times. She refused to honor your deal, and now you're angry."

The demon rolled her eyes. "Yes, so little integrity among young people today." Her façade of pretentiousness fell. "I'd be stupid to turn down a soul, precious, but as usual you're missing the point."

"Which is?"

Meg rose to her feet, snatching more fruit from the bowl on her way. "Let's just say I've developed a nasty need to hack up a lung these last few days. You think it's something in the water?"

The facetious attitude helped nothing, but Castiel sighed as he understood. "She's trying to kill you." He should have realized. Absurd as it was, he was suddenly angry and worried all at once.

Meg knocked his foot playfully with hers. "Nice work, Columbo. Hex begs won't kill a thing like me, but they're annoying as a turd at a picnic. That, and it's a bitch washing blood out of this shirt. It's my favorite, so color me bothered."

He turned aside, taking a few steps nowhere to digest the situation. "You're sure it's her? This witch who owes you?"

"Who else would it be?"

Tactlessly, Castiel reminded her, "Surely one adolescent witch is not the only enemy you have."

His reward was a fiery scowl. "Don't be an asshole."

"I'm not being—" Again, he sighed. After a moment of silent deliberation, he turned back to her with a grim frown. "You're very capable. I don't know what I can possibly offer that you can't handle yourself."

"Mind-blowing orgasms?"

That earned her a heated look. "You know what I mean. I'm not your errand boy."

Dark eyes narrowed. "No? As I recall, that's _exactly_ what you are. We had a deal too, remember? Did you think because I gave you a special peep at my panties that would change?"

Castiel took a step into her space, on the verge of laying down threats. "I serve Heaven—a Heaven at _war_. Not you. Remember that, because it's getting tiresome repeating it."

"Come on, Castiel. We both know your bark is worse than your bite."

"You haven't _seen_ my bite," he cautioned her darkly. His marching gait and blood-streaked face only leant credence to such a warning. He wasn't done, either. "Just because you have my protection does not mean you have my loyalty. Whatever this _is_ , between us—" he gestured between them both, "—does not entitle you."

The demon's frosty stare revealed how little she appreciated being talked down to. For a long time, it was just the two of them as they were meant to be—forever at odds and drowning in conflict. "Are you done making your point?"

"Only if you actually intend on hearing it."

Meg shook her head, dismissing his need to lecture. "Maybe I can't find the bitch, maybe I can. _Maybe_ I have more important things on my mind, like earning my damn title back from Crowley's little band of jackasses."

Harried by such obstinance, Castiel massaged the bridge of his nose in a very human gesture of defeat, wishing he could drive some sense into her. "You are supposed to be laying low, not going out looking for fights."

Meg laughed at his attempt to assail her with logic. "While the concern is _cute_ … it kind of makes me wanna punch you."

"And me? Do I not have better things to do?" He couldn't help but grow more irate. It would always escape him how one small demon could be so _vexing_. "I am commanding an army on the battlefront of paradise, and you're asking me to track down a witch on the basis of simple _spite_. Your pride is not my mission, Meg. I have _bigger fish_ , as you call it."

"The sooner you stop arguing, the quicker this can all be over. Or should we examine how empty your track record is for saying no to me?" Seeing that Castiel was about to protest, Meg cut in. "Look. I need this fixed. I don't have time to track her down and yank out her gooey bits. Figured your semi-omniscient flyboy powers would do the trick."

Castiel was quiet for a moment, studying her too closely for her peace of mind. "There was a time when you would've hated to admit needing my help. You do seem somewhat ambivalent towards the actual soul, so it must be something else. What is it about this witch?"

Meg pursed her lips, dark curls sliding over her shoulders as she shook her head. "She's too powerful. It doesn't track and I can't figure it out. Small fry like her? I eat that level magic for breakfast. She shouldn't be able to faze me, but I can't get anywhere near her."

"That's valid," Castiel admitted, mulling over the information pensively. Witches, as a rule, were malevolent to begin with. It would do the world no good if one gained too much power. The last time one did, Samhain had been risen from hell.

"Not to mention the Mendotas are like fucking squirrels when it comes to hiding their hex bags."

Castiel seemed startled by that. "You haven't been able to recover them?"

Given Meg's knowledge and strength of power, she should have had no trouble with something so common as a hex bag. The news that this witch had surmounted a demon of her stature was unsettling.

"Why do you think I've been popping all over the grid? Trying to dodge the little party favors. With her plays going off the defense and straight into the offensive, I'm telling you… something doesn't track. Could just be a rookie acting too big for her britches, but I don't like looking over my shoulder. It smells rotten."

The dulcet notes of Meg's voice were low and dangerous, and Castiel was reminded again of how fearsome she could be. How the sarcasm and sharp smiles were clever masks she wore to disguise what lay beneath.

As if to disprove that perception, Meg suddenly lost all trace of that cold demeanor and held out one of the fruits for him to take. "Grape?"

Castiel regarded it with slight impatience, although most of his bluster appeared to have faded. "I don't eat, and neither do you."

"Don't need to. But they were free with the room." After this little rap session, she'd have to see if her meatsuit could get her a flatscreen. Shrugging, Meg wiggled the grape in front of the angel's nose. "You sure?"

The suspicion was back. "Is this some kind of innuendo?"

"Maybe. Open your mouth."

Castiel gave both the demon and the grape a critical look. "No," he said. But a cloud of resignation had fallen over him. "I'll find your witch. Stay here."

Meg's winsome smirk showed enormous satisfaction. "Good boy."

Castiel's eyes narrowed in lax warning, but otherwise he made no remark. "What's her name?"

"Delta Mendota."

With a flutter of wings, he was gone.

Meg's smile softened into a devious little quirk. There was something fun about watching the angel scurry all over the globe for her. Castiel wasn't stupid—he likely was aware of the pleasure it brought her, not that she was exactly subtle about it. Still, despite her frustration with the circumstances and that she really did need his help, a part of her wanted to know what else she could get him to do with only a word and silent promise. Not for any nefarious means, really, but she genuinely was baffled by the attentiveness—even if he obeyed her grudgingly.

Sometimes she caught herself wondering what she might do for him, given the right motivation. The thought, as usual, arrived without invitation, nestling into the back of her mind as though making a home for itself. The significance of it caused her to frown as she was once more riddled with warm reminders of that first night when the floodgates had opened. Meg shoved those memories far away.

Castiel surprised her then when he reappeared suddenly, looking lost. "Strange," he murmured.

Eyebrows climbing, Meg tried to puzzle out how it went. "You found her?"

He looked like he didn't know where to begin. "Yes. But Delta Mendota doesn't even know how to properly _craft_ a hex bag." Castiel shook his head, bewildered by what he'd found. "It wasn't her. It couldn't be."

"How the hell do you know that? Did you read her mind or something?"

"Yes," he replied factually, the bluntness of it unexpected. "She's a witch, but barely. I believe she was more interested in the popularity and success of her musical group's latest performance. Regardless, I wiped her memories of you."

"Well, _that's_ gonna come back and bite me in the ass. Why didn't you just kill her?"

"Because she is not your problem," Castiel pointed out. He allowed his thoughts to sort through what had been gathered, reflecting then almost to himself. "You were right about this not making sense."

Meg's features became dubious and irritated. "Gosh, and here I thought _one adolescent witch surely can't be the only enemy I have_."

The angel frowned at her. "I don't sound like that."

She held up a hand, ignoring his objection. "If it's not Delta, I'm right back where I started. Maybe I'm not the sunniest of people, but I generally don't go making enemies of witches in my spare time. Which means—" A chill stole down her back, age-old survival instinct and paranoia resurfacing. There wasn't a lot in this world that Meg actually feared, and maybe it was pride, or maybe it was just that a lot of evil sons of bitches out there had been afraid of her for too long, but every villain had their weakness. And Meg had survived too long to ignore a gut instinct. "I swear, if I didn't know any better…"

She'd watched the King of Hell burn with her own eyes. He was _ash_ —dead and gone, dust to dust.

"What?" Castiel prompted, when she trailed off into uneasy silence.

Feeling her power flare around her like an eddy, Meg stood there slowly roiling. The lights behind Castiel flickered as she shook her head. "This whole thing smells like fucking _Crowley_."

The angel tensed up, grace sparking. Meg felt the air around them move as though his wings were stirring. "Crowley is _dead_ ," he said firmly, a strange look in his eyes as he denied the possibility. Perhaps that was conviction.

Meg looked at him, some of that anxiety quelling when she did. Something about the angel was grounding, and she believed him. "Yeah, I know," she muttered. Not realizing her eyes had gone black, she allowed them to retreat into their human guise. With nominal effort, she eventually settled. "I know."

Even as she said it, her thoughts warred.

Crowley was a survivor, too—cunning and slippery. There was a reason he'd ascended to the throne of Hell. But no one escaped a smiting like that, especially from this particular angel. Castiel would have known if Crowley survived. He'd sense it, and he'd rain down a wrath so fierce that the plagues of Egypt would have looked benign in comparison. She may have teased him for his soft spot for her, but she wasn't blind. Some raw, unmined stronghold slept inside him—something that wasn't there in the ring of fire. It came and went sometimes, as fickle as a breeze. Meg couldn't begin to predict it, and she wasn't sure she even wanted the privilege of knowing what he'd done to himself.

Castiel gave the room a cursory glance, distancing himself from the topic. She appreciated the deviation. "I sense no hex bags here," he said. "But, given your experience…"

Meg's eyebrows wrinkled up inquisitively when he stepped into her space, then laid a hand over her heart. Surprised into silence, she tensed and drew in a sharp breath as a spark of utter light was sent through her body. Power too ancient to comprehend seeped into her bones from the touch, setting her afire and then promptly dousing those flames in acid. The demon swayed a little, vision gone starry and dark at the corners. Whatever he'd done to her, it packed a hell of a punch.

Meg grimaced as that unfamiliar ache rushing through her abruptly faded. "What the hell…" she breathed out, stuck somewhere between pain and wonder and trying to puzzle out the difference. _Christ, was that some kind of angel roofie?_

"I apologize for any discomfort."

"What—"

"Protection," he explained. "Though, it won't last. I'd have branded your ribs, but I couldn't be sure what effect an Enochian warding would have on your… form."

Her veins still rang from the holy aftertaste, leaving her a bit disoriented. "In that case, thanks for feeling me up. Hopefully your tricks treat better than mine. What now?"

"I must return to Heaven."

"That's it?"

Castiel became somewhat curt. "You called on me mid-battle. By my account, you made it quite clear that the witch's soul was beneath you. Your prime concern was that she was out to kill you. She isn't. I've done what I can."

Meg tried to hide her disappointment, but her annoyance showed front and center. "Well. Thanks for the solid. Sorry to hold your majesty up." She crossed her arms beneath a sullen look. "Fly away, little bee."

"Do not patronize me." Castiel's voice was gruff and he looked as though he wanted to shake her. He turned aside, away from that inciting stare so that he could muse privately. Softer then, he said, "Meg… I want to help you. Against every reservation I possess." He shook his head, wondering if he was even getting through to her. "I'll do what I can, when I can. Don't abuse that. You're many things, but petty isn't one of them."

Dark eyes thawed a bit. "That's sweet, Clarence."

For a brief moment, it looked as though she might have meant it. Perhaps there was a part of her that truly did. But when Meg had her mind set on something, she stuck to it with deadly force, and right now she was intent on being prickly.

"I almost believe the sincerity."

Castiel felt something approaching defeat. "I am sincere. You're taking no time to rest or regain strength, I've told you already. You're being reckless and you're going after the throne while Hell is still in chaos. Bide your time. I know you're smarter than this. Whether one witch has outdone you or not, you're _tired_. You've been running so long, and even with Crowley gone, his men aren't likely to stop pursuing you."

The tense cut of her shoulders grew less severe as those words sunk in. Castiel looked positively threadbare, and Meg did know that he was stretching himself thin for her. She reached out a hand, fussing idly with his tie as she mulled things over. "You're telling me I should be careful?"

Castiel watched her fingers slide over the blue fabric before meeting her eyes. "Saying that would imply a deeper attachment. I'm saying don't be foolish. Seeing you dead would be… disappointing."

The corners of Meg's mouth twitched up, sharp features tempering a bit. She abandoned the tie and instead lifted her hand to touch the nasty graze over his brow, thumb wiping some of the blood away. "Ever think of heeding your own words, Atlas?"

Castiel reacted to the contact as she expected he would—reticent and somewhat guarded. Instead of retreating right away though, he lingered a bit, eventually offering her a solemn, parting nod. "Goodbye, Meg."

Her fingers slid down his cheek, giving his chin a light squeeze. "Bye, Clarence. I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon enough."

Castiel's jaw clenched so hard she heard the grinding of his vessel's teeth. Meg smiled to herself as he turned away from her, having clearly understood what she meant. Maybe if she dirtied him up just a little more, he'd stop making her feel so clean whenever she was with him.

"Hey. How about some biblical irony for the road?"

Bemused, Castiel turned back to see her pluck an apple from the bowl on the table. She tossed it to him, a somewhat repentant smirk playing at her lips as she did. He caught it with noticeable reservation, and a heavy look passed between demon and angel. When he eventually disappeared, the apple went with him.

Meg stood there long after he was already gone, contemplating his words and wondering how it was that an angel of the Lord was so determined to whip her ass back into shape. If anything, roll in the sheets or not, he should have been trying to crush her beneath his heel. Angels, as she'd known them, were dicks that way.

She stared at the spot where he'd stood, subject to too many thoughts. She could feel him still, some disembodied part of him always lingering at her side, even when they were worlds apart. He was imprinted on her, body and mind.

" _A capite ad calcem_ ," Meg muttered to herself, fingers hovering over the literal mark he'd left over her heart. She allowed her eyes to lose their humanity, black inkiness swallowing the brown. There was a need in her somewhere to shed all guises and she pressed out with her power, careful at first, touching it against the barrier of his warding magic. It didn't react to her as it should have—there was no pain, no retaliation, just a mild stretching to allow her ample room to breathe.

Such a spell should have meant her ruin, to be marked by an angel like that. As it was wont to do, though, nature bent around them. Meg's eyes lost their pitch shade, and something like defeat wound its way into her bones.

But maybe it wasn't defeat at all. Maybe it was just surrender.

* * *

_I still hear the sound of your voice_   
_singing in my head_   
_I can't surrender_   
_the rope is slowly coming apart_   
_but hanging by a thread_

* * *

Light-years away and making his tumultuous ascent back into Heaven, Castiel's own words replayed in the back of his mind.

_It doesn't entitle you_ , he'd told her.

Even as he'd said the words, he knew they were meaningless. Already he was allowing her things he'd permit no other being alive, other than the Winchesters. In some cases, not even them. It wasn't the sex that encouraged it. Something else entirely he couldn't put his finger on just yet.

He'd played off her dilemma as best he could at the time, but Castiel had every intention of getting to the bottom of this witch crisis. There was no sense in sharing that with her. Just more ammunition she could use against him, whether for her own amusement, or something worse. Whatever came of it, it was sure to be at his expense.

Perhaps he was wrong, though… and that's really all this was. Sex.

There were legends in every culture of good men falling astray through the wiles of a woman. Castiel wasn't exactly versed in such matters, after all. He'd been completely innocent for the better part of two thousand years. Dean had at least several running jokes in his arsenal pertaining to the angel's virtue. Not to mention that two millennia spent oblivious was a long time in comparison to his brief sojourn into the terrifying dominion of romance.

_Hardly romance_ , he thought sourly. Whatever the term, as Castiel met the enemy in battle, he was grimly aware that curiosity was going to end up killing them both.

* * *

_her eyes and words are so icy_   
_oh but she burns_   
_hot fast and angry as she can be_   
_I walk my days on a wire_

* * *

FEBRUARY 2011

The rush of emotion was slower to reveal this time. It was not through a burst of endorphins while in intimate embrace, not a roller coaster but a gradual burn. It spanned over not one moment lost in erotic bliss, but over the many months spent together. Fighting together, as one instead of against.

The change was realized as infatuation grew into something fonder.

"I have to go."

Meg glanced up from the inspection of her bloody weapon to where the angel was already getting to his feet. He drew his blade from the skinwalker corpse and then it was gone, up his sleeve until needed again. He was mere seconds from porting away. "Heaven calling you?"

"No. Dean." There was a strange emotion that skirted across the angel's expression, similar to guilt. Meg wondered if Team Free Will was at odds again. Something had the angel wound in knots, and when Castiel spoke again, it was with grave distress. "It's Sam… Death retrieved his soul from the Cage."

Meg's eyebrows rose for her hairline. "Holy shit," she muttered, standing too. "Bullwinkle okay?"

Her companion hesitated to answer. "Do you really care?"

"Let's not argue semantics." Meg tucked her weapon back into the sheathe at her hip and swiped the hair out of her eyes, still charged from the earlier fight. "Call it morbid curiosity."

There was admittedly a part of her that had always felt some strange connection to Sam, a perverse understanding that stretched back into a loaded history with the younger Winchester. Castiel likely knew the surface details, but if he did, he didn't say as much.

"I don't know. I sincerely doubt it." He shook his head, becoming restless as dread began to fill the pit in his stomach. "Damn it, I _warned_ Dean…"

Meg stepped into his space as he trailed off, kicking aside a stray limb as she did. "Your little boyfriends are up shit creek without waders. Can't be good."

"I don't know what that means, but it sounds unpleasant so I will agree with you."

"Can I get that in writing?"

Some of his tension ebbed at her glib remark, and he heaved a riled breath. The expression he wore now said how much he didn't like it when she said things like that, but also that he didn't quite hate it either. Spreading his wings to port himself to Bobby's, Castiel hesitated when the demon gave him a lazy little wave.

"Try to avoid trouble," he told her quietly. "While I'm gone."

Meg's grin barely reached her eyes, but it was enough to let him know she found him entertaining. "Still sounds like 'be careful' to me."

Castiel's only reply was to disappear.

Meg counted that as another victory.

* * *

_two lovers, two forces_   
_of love and hate_   
_I pull you, you pull me_   
_we complicate_

* * *

Trouble, as it turned out, was a nuisance.

And the true danger of it was that all trouble started out the same: as fun.

The draw she felt towards him in Carthage was powerful in ways she hadn't been able to comprehend at the time. Even before she was trapped alongside him in that ring of fire, she couldn't help but stray closer. This, of course, was what had gotten her trapped in the first place. Beyond that, Meg wanted some fun. He was trouble, and she liked that. When they'd made their deal, true it was banding together in the interest of a common cause, but Meg wanted more. She was sure to get herself trapped again—that, at least, was a certainty.

But the _uncertainty_ of it all… perhaps that was the real reason she'd offered him the deal. It was an itch she couldn't scratch but was looking to, the missing piece of some strange puzzle that should have been left unassembled.

_Opening Pandora never did anyone any good_ , she'd reminded herself. But Meg wore temerity like a badge, and if there was one thing she enjoyed defying most of all, it was herself. Throughout the ages, she'd learned that there was nothing prettier than complete annihilation right before the lights went out.

That was when a match strike became the forest fire. It was thrilling and it was terrifying, because Castiel was dangerous in ways she'd never expected.

The first time she made him smile, Meg knew they were in trouble.

It was a quiet thing, there and gone before she knew it, but completely unexpected. A grudging appreciation of her morbid humor as they stood over some dead ghouls together, and he'd turned his head to hide it. That was when it all became clear, in the moments she watched his face change completely; becoming softer, younger, his lips sliding up into something remarkable. Meg felt like she knew that smile. That it had somehow belonged to her, lifetimes ago.

She was falling hard, and so was he.

* * *

_I watched the city burn_   
_these dreams like ashes float away_   
_are you afraid?_   
_will you find a way to walk away?_   
_how long will you let it burn?_

* * *

"Actual dragons?"

"That's what they said."

Meg looked utterly astounded, and the expression was almost comical on her normally wintry features. "You're shitting me."

Castiel sent her a furrowed expression as they walked. "You didn't know they existed?"

Meg glanced at him sharply, rattling her key impatiently in the lock to the room she'd acquired. "What, and you did?"

"I thought they had died out."

He had that pensive look about him again, the one he got when he suspected something darker afoot. Meg abandoned her efforts with the lock and turned to lean on the door so that she could look at him. "Exactly how much have you got rattling around up in that big shiny angel brain?"

Castiel stared at her, limpid eyes narrowing as he considered her question carefully. "Considering I've existed for many thousands of years, that answer should be obvious." At the interested look she wore, his regard was somewhat dry. "The knowledge I possess would overwhelm you, I think."

Meg crossed her arms. "Try me."

"Regaling you with countless lifetimes of inestimable knowledge would be…" Castiel acquired a more lofty expression, replying in a way that he knew would rankle her, "a losing battle."

Meg snorted, reaching a hand out to smack his arm as she turned back to the door. "You're such a little shit sometimes."

Castiel wondered idly at the miniscule attack. The strike had seemed affectionate rather than violent, but he shelved his curiosity for the moment. The demon had already opened the door with a flick of her wrist, using her power to compel the lock's obedience.

"Play dumb and innocent, but I know you're not as stupid as you look."

Castiel frowned as he followed her into the dimly lit room. "That wasn't a compliment at all."

Meg tossed him a riling grin over her shoulder as she stripped off her jacket. "Don't be a dick and maybe the next one will be less backhanded." Castiel looked momentarily affronted, but it passed. As it became obvious, the medieval reveal still sat with her. "So… here there be dragons, huh? That doesn't strike you as weird?"

His brow was set in contemplation. "It is… weird. A sighting in this century certainly bodes nothing good."

"Is it ever good?"

"Rarely," he conceded. Blue eyes tracked back to hers, reading her preoccupied expression. "You look as though you're plotting a grand assumption. That also bodes ill."

She'd ignore that for now. "What about unicorns?"

Trace confusion filled his face at the leftfield speculation. "What about them?"

Meg shrugged, forgoing the use of bandages and healing the patchwork of scrapes on her arm with the influence of her power. "They're not real, are they? Do rainbows shoot out of their ass?"

Castiel's stare was blank with defeat. "Sometimes when you speak, the words that come out of you are completely incomprehensible." There were times when he suspected that she deliberately said the most ridiculous thing that came to mind just to fuck with him. By the impish glimmer of satisfaction in those dusky eyes and the way she chuckled to herself, he was not far off.

"It's a talent. Some people juggle."

Castiel sighed, no longer invested in humoring whatever prying sense of curiosity she was determined to badger him with. "Unicorns are not real."

The demon canted her head, dark curls spilling over a shoulder. Her regard of him turned sly. "You sure about that?"

Of course he was sure. "I've never seen one."

That seemed to hold a strange effect over her. Meg began sauntering his way. "That's your only proof?"

She seemed somehow triumphant, even though Castiel was sure no gauntlet had been thrown. "What other proof do you require?"

Meg grinned in spite of that righteous arrogance, amused by it even. "Angelic irony is so… charming. Trust an agent of Heaven to refuse the concept of belief without sight."

"A demon insisting on faith is more reasonable?"

She reached out a hand to tug on his tie, dark eyes never leaving his. "Sometimes you're so full of yourself, it's actually cute."

Castiel glanced down at the way her fingers wrapped around the blue fabric, feeling the brush of her shoes against his. "And I suppose you think you're very modest."

Painted lips pulled back from white teeth in a furtive smile. "Have I mentioned how much it tickles me when you get all sarcastic?"

Her voice was velvety low across the slight space between them, and Castiel made attempts to disguise his reaction of it with haughty disinterest. "You're a terrible influence."

Her laughter was a wayward symphony. Castiel felt her other hand playing with the folds of his lapel as her eyes tracked a lewd path down his form before he could even realize he was doing the same. "Wanna stick around?" she asked. "Move some furniture while we wait for the wonder twins to call again?"

"I find your innuendos to be frustrating."

"Don't pretend you don't enjoy them."

Castiel's nose brushed against hers. "I never said I didn't enjoy them," he said in a murmur.

The hand on his tie drew him a little closer. "What's the matter then, old thing? Don't you like it when you can't keep up with me?"

His hand was suddenly gripping hers too tight over the tie, blue eyes growing darker as they sought hers. For awhile, that cold marble stare was the only thing filling the silence between them, even as his other arm slipped discreetly around her waist.

"Now, see…" Meg whispered along the curve of his lips, "you're much cuter when you're shutting up."

"So are you," the angel muttered back, before pulling her smaller body against his and sealing their mouths completely.

* * *

_even if I try to win the fight_   
_my heart would overrule my mind_   
_I'm not strong enough to stay away_   
_I'm not to blame, my heart is chained to you_   
_and I can't get free_

* * *

It was becoming easier for them to fall into each other. Remarkable how effortlessly they did so, contrary to their natures as tensions collided in ways that spelled out relief. They rode out the aftershocks together, a tangle of glistening limbs and gasping breaths on the floor. The intent along the way had failed, and they hadn't quite made it to the bed.

"Park it, cloudhopper," Meg said when she felt him start to pull away. Her soft laugh spilled over him like an embrace.

It was strange, he thought, having her voice to keep him anchored. What was stranger was Meg herself—that she had any desire to be close to him, once her goal was achieved. But then, he'd never really experienced anyone wanting to be close to him. Castiel offered a wordless reply, shifting so that they laid side by side instead of entwined. No one should want him. As the war so often liked to remind him, he was tainted.

So was she, of course, but at least the demon couldn't help what she was. Castiel could claim no such excuse.

Curious despite himself, the angel turned blue eyes on the creature beside him. "Why?" he asked. The aftermath of these ardent encounters always played tricks on his mind, and he wondered if they did for Meg too. He felt unworthy of her, but unable to break away. Disparaging himself for desiring more and yet hating that it was never enough, that something was missing. The hollow feeling disturbed him, and it was difficult to reason out why that feeling haunted him as much as it did. He knew that lying with her like this was considered one of the most heinous acts an angel could perform, but something lost inside him told a different story. It said that guilt wasn't the reason for that feeling at all.

She still had yet to answer him.

"Meg?"

"I'm not done with you, yet."

"I have nowhere else to go."

She sighed, a spark of true fondness breaking through. "You're a damn tragedy, sometimes."

Castiel considered this, weary and mired within his own thoughts, and reined in a sigh of his own. "I'd rather be forgettable."

For some reason, that got her attention. The way she looked at him was different. More intense. "Clarence, you're a lot of things. _Forgettable_ will never be one of them."

One day, the heartbreaking irony of those words would crush them both, but for now that day was inconceivable. For now, those words perplexed him, even as they stirred something awake in him. Castiel turned away again, blue eyes scanning the ceiling for some assistance. "I can't decide if that's a compliment or a complaint."

"Neither can I," Meg muttered to herself, though the angel of course had heard. He always heard.

This thing between them was becoming too habitual. Both angel and demon found unexpected solace in the routine of their affair. It was a strange comfort in many ways—yet one more thing for them to lose their pride over. Neither creature was meant for the feelings they inspired in each other, and it wrought havoc in them both. Aside from the distraction of the war, some of Castiel's most trusted allies had noticed a change in him. Balthazar, Rachel, Ezekiel… Dean and Sam and spoken out about it on more than one occasion already. The war was devastating, but at least it was simple. Sentiment towards it could be explained and rationalized. Whatever this was between them was a disaster.

Even still, with each other, the shame never lasted long. There was blissful oblivion in finding ecstasy with her, Castiel discovered. Stunning moments where duties and burdens were forgotten in a haze. Compared to his other sins, he hoped the positive outweighed the bad. More and more, though, Castiel found he was selfish beyond what he'd ever thought capable of himself.

"Do you think I use you?" he asked, on the verge of contrition.

Meg _hmphed_ in amusement at that, but by the foreign things she confessed in the midst of passion, Castiel knew more than anything that they used each other. A little breathless still, she shook her head. "Baby, you can use me however you want."

Castiel's brow furrowed together, something perturbing him. He decided he didn't like it when she called him that.

"Don't get all broody on me now. Our little arrangement was just starting to get good."

"I can see through you, you know."

She needed this as much as he did. When all her bravado and carefully constructed sarcasm fell away, the demon he'd known in Carthage was not the demon of now. Too often he forgot how those traits were just veneers she'd built to mask what hid beneath. Castiel knew too well of masks. He had so many of his own now.

Beside him, he felt Meg bristle, going tense for a spell before that conflict subsided. "Nobody likes a know-it-all. You'd better start doing things to me again, before I lose interest and vamoose."

Feeling too much, Castiel instead took the route of the coward. He disappeared quietly and without a word, leaving Meg to stare at the ceiling in his stead. Clinging to the sensation he'd left behind, she trailed her fingers lightly over the skin above her heart, where the angel's lips had professed his unfathomable desire. So often she found that he could be positively sinful without even meaning to, but there were other times when the things he said to her were not sinful at all.

As each dawn rose after yet another night of pleasure, their hatred and spite of each other grew less and less. Preconceived stigmas and inborn natures were shed alongside inhibitions in the wake of something much greater.

Something as dangerous as it was powerful.

* * *

_is this what you wanted?_   
_did I make your dreams come true?_   
_you're sitting in a corner, wondering what you got into_   
_and you ache for things you don't understand_   
_there's no such thing as fate_   
_only yourself to blame you never walked away_

* * *

" _I've been down with a broken heart since the day I learned to speak. The devil gave me a crooked start when he gave me crooked feet. But Gabriel done came to me and kissed me in my sleep, and I'll be singin' like an angel until I'm six feet deep._ "

The demon sat behind the wheel of a 1976 Mustang as she sang along with the radio, head tipped back as the breeze from the open window blew threw her hair. The car was an almost predictable bright cherry red as it sped down the deserted highway, horsepower roaring to life under the cloudless sky.

" _I'm gonna raise, raise hell. There's a story no one's telling. You gotta raise, raise hell. Go on and ring that bell_."

"Did you steal this car?"

Meg wasn't even startled to hear the angel's voice or to see him suddenly beside her in the passenger seat, despite that the volume of the music drowned out the sound of his arrival. "Wouldn't you like to know," she said over the noise, finally turning it down when Castiel's piercing stare won out. "Does it matter?"

"I need more locations," he hedged instead, deigning to overlook any grand theft auto.

Meg dug a pen and pad out of the glove box in front of him. It had been awhile since she'd seen him last. "All business, no play, huh?"

The radio continued to drone with the modern folk song, its southern-sounding twang perplexing him. She had peculiar taste in music, he thought. But then, what did he know? Sam, he knew, favored similar music, although Dean swore up and down that the genre was unforgivable. Meg herself seemed to enjoy all music.

"Keep your eyes on the road," Castiel advised when she propped the pad on the console between them and started to write.

The vehicle occasionally swerved, but the demon merely smiled to herself at his remark. "Be happy I'm wearing a seatbelt."

"Gabriel is dead, by the way."

Meg glanced over at him, seeming amused with his sudden interest in the song. "Is he? From what I've heard about him… I wouldn't be so sure."

"Regardless, I'm not fond of the insinuation that he'd be kissing you."

Meg's smile broadened into a full grin. "Well, isn't that adorable." With her free hand, she tore off the piece of paper with the locations and held it up for him to take. "Green looks good on you."

Castiel's brow wrinkled up as he accepted the list. "Should I understand that?"

"To be honest, it's more comical when you don't." Meg relaxed back into her seat, singing along once more and sending him the occasional sidelong look, which he suspected meant something else he didn't understand. " _You came upon a lightning strike and eyes a bright clear blue. I took a tie from around my neck, and gave my heart to you_."

By her lingering smirk, she was trying to get under his skin with the lyrics. Even still, that complacency faded somewhat and she eventually trailed off as she watched him. Castiel had gone silent, but for some reason she couldn't understand. One that had nothing to do with the song or her driving. He stared out the windshield as the scenery swept by, lost in thought. There was a strange, dismal expression in place of the stern impassivity she was more familiar with, and now that she thought about it, Meg decided he _had_ looked a little frayed at the edges when he'd shown up.

"Hey," she said, her voice softer and less barbed.

Even with the music playing, Castiel heard her. "Yes?"

Still, he didn't look away from the winding road. As the miles and minutes passed on, he seemed more and more bleak.

_I dug a hole inside my heart and put you in your grave. At this point, it was you and me, and mama didn't raise no slave._

"Why not blow off the monster run and road trip with me for a bit?" It was said through her usual crooked smile, but there was an underlying guilelessness that couldn't be missed. "Wanna see the world's largest ball of twine? Sing shitty showtunes? How bad do you suck at _I Spy_?"

He turned his head to stare at her, and Meg knew at least half of what she was saying went clear over his head, but somehow she could see that he'd latched on to the heart of her offer. Castiel's reply was nonetheless very somber, almost grim. "No. I have to do this."

There was something about his sullen demeanor that made her wonder if something had happened. Something more than the usual shit he had to deal with. "That's some heavy angst for a fucking side gig, Clarence." Despite the crassness of the words, they were spoken softly. Speculatively. It was strange, she thought, how he so often insisted his focus remain on Heaven and the war, and yet he was determined to hunt down creatures of no consequence to him. Were Crowley's plans for Purgatory really that important? It was to her, but why would Castiel devote so much time to it when his own kingdom was crumbling down? There had to be more to it, and Meg wondered what he wasn't telling her. Even if Castiel's interests were of the same vein, with Crowley dead, it wasn't a race anymore. He could bide his time, as he'd told her.

But he wasn't.

The war, monster hunting, the Winchesters, her… that was a heavy burden to carry for anyone. Superhuman or not.

Meg glanced at the angel riding shotgun, wondering if she'd ever know the mystery—or if she even wanted to.

Castiel's gaze slid away from hers and out past the window, no longer looking ahead either, but at what was passing them by. "There are things required of me that I… don't like." He waited for her impish response, but it never came. Instead, she was quietly listening, waiting for him to go on. "It's the war," he confessed quietly. "Sometimes I don't recognize myself, or what it's turning me into."

"Can't argue that," she agreed at length. "Barely recognized you myself as the same angel who tossed me into the frying pan."

He supposed he appreciated her attempts to lighten the conversation. After all, it seemed selfless—as though she might have done it for his benefit instead of her own. But it wasn't enough to erase the images branded into his unforgetting mind; images of his fallen brothers and sisters in the wake of this latest battle. Possibly worse, images of Sam beating a policeman bloody, cavorting with countless women and respecting them very little, discrediting the importance of his own family, murdering innocent men, the painful flashbacks of his time in hell…

Castiel had observed, unseen, for most of the Winchesters' trip to Bristol as Sam relived his first time passing through the Rhode Island town when soulless. The angel had seen Sam's memories as they returned in force, memories of those dark moments in an even darker timeline. Because of it, Sam was miserable with himself and what he'd done without a conscience, and Castiel felt unspeakable regret. The notion that it was truly his fault was inescapable and it weighed heavily on the angel's shoulders, serving as a reminder of his failure to raise the boy properly.

Castiel tried to wash out the hurt he felt for such a terrible mistake. For _all_ his mistakes. He was deceiving his friends, his kin, everyone around him. He was in partnership with the King of Hell, floundering in a mission to secure the bestial souls of Purgatory and the obscene power they contained. "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Fine, whatever," Meg said easily, allowing him the mystery. "Catch you later."

She expected him to flutter off as he usually did, leaving her to wonder after him, but he hadn't moved. His gaze had fallen to rest on his hands as they sat idly in his lap, the pad of a thumb crimping the corner of the paper he held. The demon was not easily caught off guard, but his next words shocked her.

"Do you think I'm a villain?"

He asked because she would know. It was not condescending, not at all. He genuinely needed to know her answer. He just needed someone to tell him if he was out of his mind, if he was indeed no better than the creatures he hated and was built to destroy.

Meg regarded him with surprising sincerity, her expression growing very serious. She made no quip, but her eyes said he was so far off the mark that she might find it funny later.

"You're still just Castiel."

_I sent my love across the sea and though I didn't cry_ , the radio droned. _That voice will haunt my every dream until the day I die._

His eyes as he stared at her seemed bluer than ever, some great weight dissolving around him with no grand fanfare. The look he wore was still heavy, but there was gratitude lurking somewhere beneath that stony stoicism. Meg almost had to look away. Idly, a thought occurred to her, and she wondered what kind of music Castiel might like. It was a strange thing to snare her attention, and with a restless frown she sent it away. If the angel noticed the oddity, he gave no indication. Instead, he nodded slightly, seeming more sure of himself.

"Goodbye, Meg."

The rustle of wings was quiet as he vanished, and Meg turned her eyes back towards the road ahead.

_Go on and ring that bell._

_Go on and ring that bell._

_Go on and ring that bell._

* * *

_you took my face in both your hands_   
_and looked me in the eye_   
_and I went down with such a force_   
_that in your grave I lie_

* * *

When she found him at their meeting place, Meg had no choice but to take in the sight of sizzling corpses and burnt wings with some measure of awe. He'd hate her for it, but it was mostly involuntary. She stared down at the ashen smear beneath her feet, into the lifeless eyes turned permanently towards heaven. The piercing ring of celestial death knells still hung heavy in the air around them as Meg turned her eyes on Castiel.

He was a fighter before, she knew that, but lately he was positively brutal. Whatever skill and strength he had before seemed to have been decupled since she found him wiping out that nest of vampires, so many months ago.

Castiel looked up slowly from the dead angels surrounding him, totaling four. His blade was coated in blood, still smoking. Eyes were blue as opal, shining bright with power that took too long to dim. He looked utterly indestructible, and yet completely miserable with himself as the heat of battle ebbed.

"The hell happened?" Meg wondered, trying to keep the admiration and slight tinge of fear from her voice.

"They followed me."

"Ambush from Raphael?"

Castiel nodded grimly, stowing his blade. "There have been more of them lately."

That seemed to be all he was willing to divulge. "Nothing like an assassination attempt to start the day off right," she observed dourly. It was a shame she'd missed the fireworks. There was nothing quite like watching Castiel go vengeful.

"You'll forgive me if I don't find the humor."

"Do you see me laughing?"

"No," Castiel admitted, granting her with a heavy look. "But I've come to know you well enough to see how much you enjoy this."

Great. Now he was mad.

Meg spread her hands in a heedless show of indifference. "Sorry I'm not shedding tears for the assholes who tried to kill you." She looked almost sovereign standing there, a dark eddy of strength among the ruined heavenly host. A glance at her feet though reminded her of how little she shared in common with these creatures, and just how much her companion did. "But then, they're not my family."

"They're not," Castiel agreed, his eyes pinning her to the spot.

To her credit, Meg did not recoil under the intensity of that stare. She met it head on, without challenge, in search of some kind of explanation. "You're alive, they're dead. What more do you want?"

Castiel seemed to soften at that, regardless of the edge her words carried. "I want the fighting to be over," he said quietly.

Meg's broad stance lost tension, her shoulders sagging a bit at his heartfelt response. "Well, that's a pretty daydream, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is."

"You think you can achieve something like that?"

Castiel became withdrawn, that latent darkness in him flaring beneath the surface. "I will either find a way, or make one."

The words scraped over the space between them like sandpaper, a fitting inscription for a headstone, she thought. It was a dangerous goal to live by, as experience had shown her how often the search for peace cost more lives than any other ideal throughout the ages. But the defeat weaved into Castiel's shoulders was too potent to belittle. Meg sighed, moseying over to him. "Come on, Cas, you finally grew a pair. I know you're looking for a lion and lamb ending, but some bastards just need to be conquered. Simple as that."

He didn't look entirely convinced. "A pair of what?"

The deadpan confusion came out of nowhere, and Meg laughed helplessly. She shook her head, a smile spilling over that resembled a thousand sharp things. "Your people skills are showing." Like a curtain falling, she grew serious very quickly then and glanced around. "Is it safe here?"

Her moods were so erratic, and lately his were possibly more so. It always proved a small phenomenon that they collaborated as well as they did.

Composing himself, Castiel activated. "Unlikely there will be more." He'd allowed for no return report, after all. "Still, it'd be prudent to move on."

"Rally in Maple Town, then? We're about thirty miles from the border." At his look, Meg flashed her patent smirk. "What? I always wanted to go to Canada. We'll bag a moose and catch a hockey game after the bloodshed."

Despite that he found everything she said to be absurd, Castiel's mood was lightening, the weight on his shoulders inexplicably less onerous. Meg was good at that, he'd found. "Hockey game?" he parroted. He was familiar with the sport, but only through throwaway comments made by Dean and Sam.

"Yes. And you're buying me one of those beer helmets."

The angel's eyes crimped up in confusion. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know what that was. "I have no money," he said instead. What would a contraption like that cost, anyway?

"Semantics, tree topper. Meet you in an hour. Try not to bring any company."

Castiel watched her go in silence, for the first time in awhile knowing a sense of calm.

He knew there would be no hockey game, that she was merely playing into the scenario for entertainment's sake. But something about the way she did that was irrefutably touching. It had been so long since anyone had said something for the express purpose of improving his spirits. He couldn't remember the last time someone had.

Once more, Castiel set his gaze on the dead at his feet. Angels who had given their lives in the service of bringing his to an end. Out of sight, overhead, the rebel commander heard the cries and shouts of more distant battles beyond the clouds.

" _Qaaon_ ," he said to the sky. " _Bagale nenni ol dasaari oiad ol oi iarri?"_

His fortitude suffered a deafening blow, but with renewed creed, his blade dropped into his waiting hand and the wings at his back spread wide.

Meg would have to understand his delay.

* * *

_red sun rises like an early warning_   
_go to the river where the water runs_   
_wash him deep where the tides are turning_   
_and if you fall_   
_let the river run dry_

* * *

MARCH 2011

In a crowded penthouse party heaven belonging to some formerly moneyed CEO, two angels were among the human apparitions. It had become a customary means of cloaking themselves from Raphael's followers and any watchful eyes, skipping through the favored heavens of human souls. A soft blue sky arched past the skylight overhead, and calm ocean waters lapped tranquilly beyond the open balconies.

Bent over a cocktail table with a drink in hand, Balthazar was the picture of relaxed and jaunty. He gave his counterpart a subtly questioning look as he raised his glass. "I'm supposing you've heard the rumors, of course."

Castiel looked out of place amid the vibrant partygoers, wondering why Balthazar had chosen this particular heaven out of the billions available to them. He stood stiff as a board, trying to ignore every drunken stumble that careened his way. "What rumors?" he asked, vaguely suspicious. His brother was a gossip at the best of times.

"That Raphy is back," Balthazar replied casually, sipping his scotch. "Word is he's finally got a new vessel and is ready to play ball." There was a look of dawning dread on his commander's face as realization set in, and Balthazar held up a finger with an unbothered smile on his face. "Now, now… before your knickers get twisted, hear me out." He set down his drink, leaning forward over the little table covertly. "I know exactly how to get him off your ass. More importantly, off the ass of yours truly." Balthazar waved importantly at himself, to illustrate his point.

Castiel was still quite alarmed, and as such was ready to hear Balthazar's plan. "How? Ezekiel has yet to find Eden." He'd long ago directed his elder brother into searching out Jophiel, the powerful Seraph who stood guard over the infamous garden, but that quest was proving futile. Bartholomew was torturing prisoners of the enemy, Samandriel was seeking help amongst the penitents, and Rachel was commanding his army while he stood here with Balthazar and plotted their next move. All avenues had been met with failure, and so when Balthazar said he had something new for them to sink their teeth into, Castiel practically pounced. "Your expression says I will hate it, but at this point one of your schemes may be just what we need."

"Oh, Cas. I'm flattered." Balthazar grinned easily and spread his arms, as if the answer were obvious. "The weapons."

Dismayed and observably disappointed, Castiel set his jaw and looked sidelong at his brother. "You mean the weapons you _stole_ and were careless with? Careless enough so that Balam somehow got his hands on Joshua's Horn and decimated a great number of my men?"

Balthazar had the decency to look chagrinned, but he shook his head. "That was a mistake. Even still, the nukes I've kept safely tucked away are enough to make Joshy's Horn look like a bloody kazoo." The angel was confident now again, his coy smile growing. One of his eyebrows lifted just slightly. "We play snatch and grab."

"From your own hiding place?"

"You'd better believe Raphael has eyes under every stone—especially if he's scored himself a new bag of bones. We go traipsing after my secret stash, he's bound to notice. When that kind of power gets woke, it rings a bloody dinner bell."

Castiel appeared skeptical, but was willing to hear his brother out. "Tell me this plan."

Balthazar's tone took on a warning note, despite those twinkling eyes. "Don't know if you're going to like it…"

Impatient and not bothering to hide it, Castiel allowed his stare to bore into the other angel with a trace of threat. "Just _tell me_ , Balthazar."

His brother smirked a bit as he fiddled with his scotch glass. "Ever heard of a battle tactic called a feint, Cas?"

"Of course I have." Castiel seemed annoyed at the implication that he might not. "It involves drawing the attention of the enemy to an area in battle with little import. At which time, the offensive strategy can take place without interruption." Balthazar looked at his brother pointedly, suggestively. Castiel's frown only deepened. "What are you saying?"

"We stage a distraction and send Raphael and company on a wild goose chase, while _you_ get the weapons." Balthazar took great care to put a hand over his own heart in false humility. "With yours truly leading the way, of course."

Digesting the idea, Castiel was nodding intently, eyes down in thought. "This sounds promising." He peered at Balthazar in veiled hopefulness. "What distraction did you have in mind?"

Balthazar in turn grew mildly hesitant. "This is the part you're not going to like," he admitted, reluctant to say what he'd planned. He waited a couple more beats, then came out with it. "The Winchesters."

Immediately, Castiel's face showed complete aversion. " _No_ ," he said. Intense and meaningful in a way that was borne out of complete protectiveness, Castiel drew himself up to his full height. "They won't be used in that way. It's too dangerous."

A bit impatient, Balthazar sighed loftily and looked at the scene around them. "Do you want to win the war or _not_ , Cassie?" Deeply abiding guilt showed in his brother's face, and Balthazar jabbed a finger down onto the table and pressed his advantage. "Then _this_ is _how_. We _need_ those weapons, and you know we do." Overhead, seagulls swooped past the glass of the skylight, their squawking cries filling the new silence as the party lost steam. When Castiel still said nothing, only looked down at the table unseeingly, Balthazar continued in his efforts to convince him. "I've got it all thought out—I've _done_ my research, I promise you that. Yes, there's a slight risk to the boys, but it's nothing they can't handle. They've surmounted the bloody Morning Star, for Dad's sake, a few holy henchman will be nothing." Balthazar chanced a roguish, self-assured grin. "It'll practically be a vacation for them." His easygoing demeanor was not matched by Castiel. Giving up on his more playful attempts, Balthazar became serious. "If this can give you the upper hand, why not risk it?"

Castiel's eyes snapped up to his brother balefully. "Because I don't want to risk _them_."

Not to mention that if he was off on some critical mission that required every ounce of his concentration, he wouldn't be there if she called for him. Things had settled some since he'd told her to bide her time, but even still. Disasters happened, and they happened _fast_. What if Crowley found her? What if the witch on her heels contrived a way past all his careful wards? What if Raphael or his own followers somehow discovered their affair and decided to have her killed as punishment to him for coveting something he should never have?

What if she needed him? Would he go to her? Would he abandon his post? Would he even hear her—given that Balthazar rarely hid his valuables in convenient dimensions? The humanity of these emotions escaped him.

Sighing chidingly, Balthazar seemed almost to read into Castiel's thoughts and gave his brother a patronizing look. "Cas, Cas, Cas… the time of wants is sadly past. The time of action is upon us. I can assure you, the reward will outweigh the risk."

Not convinced, Castiel stayed stony and silent. His eyes were piercing, testing and probing and clearly wondering if it were the right course of action.

Balthazar was contrite—he knew he'd wronged his brother in the past, and he _did_ wish to atone. "Let me make up for my mistakes, once and for all," he requested, an earnest warmth leaking into his voice. "Just say yes, and the weapons are yours. I'll take care of the lying-to-their-faces part, and you don't have to get your hands dirty. This will _work_. I vow it to you on my own existence." There was more uncertain silence from Castiel, and Balthazar couldn't understand why his brother was so hesitant. "Cas, you _need_ these weapons."

A weary sigh fell from Castiel's parted lips. "I know that I do."

Deep in thought, the angel in the trenchcoat and skewed tie deliberated for a terse, prolonged moment. Dark brows pushed towards each other as he weighed his options and considered the lives at stake.

"Balthazar, if any of them are harmed at all…" he trailed off, very loath to continue onward with that thought. He certainly couldn't tell the other angel about his relationship— _association_ —with the demon Meg. The mere notion that she would be alone in the wake of his absence was troubling enough, and while the Winchesters might be on a _vacation_ , she would be open to attack. She was one soldier against the entire populace of Hell. The odds were not in her favor at all, and she had too few allies and too many out for her head.

Balthazar smiled a little at his brother, whose concern for the humans was unique—some said it freakish, at best. "Not a hair on their heads, Cas old boy. Your pets will be safe where I send them… if a little emotionally disturbed." A muscle jumped in Castiel's already tight jaw. His struggle was marked and vast, and Balthazar didn't see the issue or why his leader had to even think about it. _Win the war_ , by the simple act of dangling those two apes as bait. They'd be fine, and even if they weren't, there were plenty of angels who could bring humans back from the dead—Castiel included. What was the dilemma? Prompting his brother out of his silence, Balthazar asked, "Do you trust me, or no?"

Castiel's conflicted gaze rose slowly up to his. He looked upset with himself and very trapped, forced into a scenario he hated. However, he was also quite resigned. "Tell me what to do," he said heavily.

A slow, delighted smile spread across Balthazar's face. He reached out, clapping him once on the side of the arm with enthusiasm. "Right choice, Cassie. Right choice."

Somewhere, a champagne bottle popped and a cork sailed high.

* * *

_afraid to lose control_   
_and caught up in this world_   
_I've wasted time, I've wasted breath_   
_I think I've thought myself to death_

* * *

Drenched and pissed, Meg put her shoulder into the stubborn door and barged her way into her most recent motel room. It was raining like a bitch outside and, not unlike a cat, Meg hated getting wet when it wasn't on her own terms. It had been storming for days, with no end in sight, and she was ready to get the hell out of this town.

"You used the door."

The voice materialized at her side, and Meg turned her head to see Castiel standing at the window, staring out at the rain. She kicked off her sodden boots, which cost her another two inches in height, and padded over to the kitchenette. "Why do you say that like someone just steamrolled your puppy?"Castiel had no answer and she began wringing out her hair in the rusty sink. "Been trying to cut back on the whack-a-mole entrances," she said. "Easier to hide when you put the demon juice under a lid."

"Mm."

Meg paused in her task, dark eyes finding him in the shadows of the room. She reached over and switched on the light, flooding the room with illumination. "Something's on your mind."

"A lot of things."

"That narrows it down." She disappeared momentarily into the bathroom, discarding her jacket over the shower rail to dry. "Not gonna make me carve it out of you, are ya?" she called out to him.

The teasing undercurrent of her voice helped his fitfulness to settle, and Castiel glanced at her briefly when she stepped back into the room. "It's… Dean and Sam are…"

"What?"

Castiel thought better of what he was going to say, aborting that line of discussion. That didn't stop the Winchesters' livid prayers from filling his head or their blustery insults from reaching his ears. "Nothing. It doesn't matter." They were very, very angry with him. Castiel did his best to ignore it. "The mission was successful."

He had told Meg about his endeavor to secure the weapons of Heaven, and she frankly was surprised he hadn't gone after them sooner. However, after he'd explained the risks associated with a recovery mission of this caliber, she'd told him he was fucking nuts, but good luck.

Meg stopped what she was doing. "You mean you got the weapons?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit," she said. Her interest was snared as she waited for him to go on.

"It will take time to move them and siphon their power, but for now we wait for the field to clear."

"When do you take back Heaven then?" she asked, moving over to him.

"What do you mean?"

"You've got the weapons. Wasn't that your big ace in the hole?"

Castiel hesitated, turning away from her probing gaze to look out the window and into the storm. "I have another… ace in the hole. The process is nearing completion. Once I have this final thing, then I'll be ready."

Well, that was a curveball.

Meg allowed a single eyebrow to quirk at this new development. "I'll assume you didn't mean for that to sound as ominous as it did."

Though she had flipped on the lights, Castiel was still wreathed in shadow. The rain played secrets across the surface of his eyes, and the sudden crack of thunder pulled the demon's focus.

"Your cousins having a bowling tournament up there, or what? It's been storming for the past three days."

"The climate patterns are being affected by the skirmishes in Heaven," Castiel explained, toneless. His shoulders moved around a sigh. "Many prayers complain about the weather."

"I'd complain, too," she said, baiting him so that he'd pull out of his funk. "If I didn't think it'd get me smote on the spot, that is. Do you have any idea what rain does to leather?"

Her catty smile drew a faintly amused smirk out of him, and Meg supposed that was as good as she was going to get. Turning away from him and anxious to get out of her wet clothes, she pulled her tank top over her head so she could wring it out in the sink like she had with her hair. "So, if the ninja turtle wins, he vaporizes your little God Squad and the planet?"

Castiel glanced over his shoulder briefly, eyes tracking his companion as she moved about the room in her jeans and bra. "Yes. There are other things Raphael strives towards, even with the apocalypse being at the forefront of his priorities. Things would get unspeakably worse though if he were actually able to…"

The words stalled on his tongue, throat closing up around them as instinct told him to parse what he said around her.

"Able to what, Castiel?" Dark eyes were locked on his, her voice gone somewhat flat as she recognized his refusal to tell her. "Break Lucifer out of the Cage?" At Castiel's tense and very grave expression, Meg's smirking reply was rueful. "Can't say I blame you for battening down the hatches on that tiny detail."

_Lucifer is just using demons to achieve an end, and once he does… he'll destroy you all._

Castiel's voice filled her head, his words from their first meeting in Carthage once again repeating in her head as it had for weeks after she'd been cast into the flames. Try as she might to ignore it, the words still taunted her to this day. What was worse was that a fraction of her twisted soul had the nerve to question her master even then, to wonder if the trapped angel with the pretty frown was right.

Feeling vulnerable in front of him now, she shoved the thoughts away with a wink and artificial smile. "Relax, angel. Not like there's anyone for me to run and tell."

Castiel watched as she tossed her shirt at the end of the bed and began rooting around in the various drawers of the shoddy nightstand. Meg wasn't the only one with recurring memories of that day.

_We're going to Heaven, Clarence!_

"Lucifer promised to take you to Heaven," he said quietly, realization finding him at last. With some new understanding, he stared at the pale line of her back and felt something approaching compassion. "You wanted to see Heaven."

The demon had gone tense as a spring under those words, but when she spoke again her voice was perfectly casual. She even chuckled as she resumed her fruitless search. "I'd be careful painting me with any nobility—you'll just end up disappointed. And you can keep your precious attic. Trust me, the constant pissing matches are a huge turn off." She slammed the drawer shut suddenly in mild outburst. "Just like this fucking motel for not having any clothes lying around. What kind of overnight, by the hour, shithole doesn't at least have a spare tee shirt—"

She whirled around in frustration, and Castiel was suddenly beside her. His trenchcoat was gone from his shoulders, held out for her to take.

At her cool look of surprise, he said, "It's quite warm." Meg did nothing, so he elaborated a bit more. "You were making a lot of noise. I could hear the couple next door calling the front desk to complain."

There was a soft, speculative sound as she accepted the coat. "Well, I'm a little tongue-tied, Clarence. Not used to you putting clothes _on_ me." She looked up at him again, seeing that his eyes were already set on her.

"You're a peculiar demon," he said thoughtfully. "I can't say I've ever come across another with such a docile idiosyncrasy."

"Oh?" Meg asked archly. "And what idiosyncrasy is that?"

Castiel watched her pull the coat over her slight body, and it practically swallowed her. The sight was somehow very pleasant. "You don't like getting wet."

Meg raised an eyebrow, withholding some crude rejoinder. She stepped forward so that her small feet were just between his own, and stared up into his face. "I don't like getting rained on. There's a difference."

"I'm certain there is."

Humming, Meg reached up to part the folds of his coat just a sliver more, eyes dropping to indicate her still-wet jeans. "Don't suppose you wanna dry these for me?" she asked. "The old-fashioned way is just so boring. Unless you'd prefer having a naked demon snuggle up with your favorite coat."

Her impish smile was further proof that no good would come of answering that.

With dry regard and a tinge of affectionate exasperation, Castiel lifted his hands and slid them over her hips. Meg peered up into his face as his focus centered on their point of contact and the hands pressed against her grew decidedly warm. They emitted a soft light, grace humming as his power began to erase that feeling of dampness.

"That's a nice parlor trick, Clarence."

Castiel made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, thumb brushing over the skin at the waistband of her jeans. His eyes traveled up the milky expanse of her stomach, over the scars, the black lace that covered the curve of her breasts and the talisman necklace that rested between them. There was a sense of calm starting to override the tension hanging between them, one that he didn't want to sever just yet, and, sighing, he returned his eyes to the floor.

"Don't be so polite," she murmured, fingers playing at the ends of his shirt. "You'll make a girl blush." _Or believe she's worth something._ "I prefer an angel who knows what he wants."

Castiel raised his eyes to meet hers, hand sliding a little higher until it rested over the curve of her waist. Damp tendrils of hair framed her apple face, falling over the shoulders of his coat she wore so convincingly. "Is what I want such a mystery?" he asked.

"I don't know," Meg intoned softly, dark eyes sparkling up at him. "Sometimes you look like you wanna turn me into an ash tray."

Impulsively, perhaps even to prove a point, Castiel closed the small distance between them and laid his lips over hers. The kiss was chaste and lingered only a moment, but it was enough to wipe the smirk from her face.

"What was that for?" she asked, only after he'd drawn away. Meg wondered if she sounded as suspicious to him as she did to herself.

"I wondered what it would feel like with no clear motive in mind."

"Hm."

Castiel carefully weighed the moment as it hung in the air between them, so as not to misread a single glance. Meg was the one avoiding his gaze now, but she hadn't withdrawn either. "Should I not have?"

Meg cleared her throat, sultry veneer piecing itself back together. "Demons are for killing, Castiel," she said beneath a lurking smile. "Didn't they teach you that at bible camp?"

"So are angels," he pointed out.

She humored that notion, a curious look overcoming her face. "It's strange we haven't tried to kill each other yet," the demon admitted.

"I threw you into fire."

"Yeah, but you didn't finish me off."

"I—" Castiel broke off, considering her words. He'd been ready to argue, but thought better of it as he realized the truth in her statement. "I didn't, you're right."

"Always am."

"Hardly," he muttered, even as a smile twitched the very corner of his mouth.

That smile was immediately wiped away at the sudden summons that pulled on his gut. All trace of previous contentment fell from his face, replaced by grim contempt.

"You look like you just ate something grody."

Meg's brow was knit in suspicion as Castiel began to pull away. He shook his head, frowning deeply. "I'm being called."

"Winchesters?"

"No. I'm needed in Heaven. I have to go."

His brusque tone lent the notion that whatever awaited him would not be pleasant. "What about your duds?" she asked, plucking at the ends of his coat. "You look practically naked like that, and this is coming from someone who's seen you naked."

"I'll return for it later," he said, needing to go before his summoner grew impatient and came looking for him.

His wings spread, but something made Castiel steal one last look at the demon wearing his coat.

Her hands had wrapped it tighter around herself, and she looked almost at home in it. Against his better judgment, the angel allowed himself the smallest window of time to consider the history they were forging together. How it began in flame, and would so likely end. It was no coincidence that it burned when they touched—from the very start of it all until now. When grace met darkness and angel kissed demon.

But Castiel was mired along the path of the deceiver. A place where not even Meg could follow.

He should never have looked back.

* * *

_you're like a dagger_   
_and stick me in the heart_   
_taste the blood from my blade_   
_and when we sleep, would you shelter me_   
_in your warm and darkened grave_

* * *

_Therefore, whoever desires peace, let him prepare for war._

It was not Heaven that summoned him.

With no amount of eagerness and only dark foreboding, Castiel answered the call. Almost immediately, he found himself in a dim warehouse littered with trash. No one seemed to be there, and the angel was temporarily confused. Then, behind him, he heard the familiar voice.

"Cas, old buddy."

Castiel turned sharply, never happy to see the King of Hell, but the guilt weighing on him so heavily made him especially uncivil this time.

Crowley appeared marginally flummoxed at what he was seeing. "Where's your coat?"

"My wardrobe doesn't concern you."

Crowley huffed at the sour greeting, affronted. "Well, to hell with you then."

Castiel glanced around, surveying the area. Why were they meeting here? He'd assumed Crowley would have found a new headquarters by now instead of this empty and derelict building that was more likely to collapse in on them than anything. Leery, he narrowed his eyes. "What is this place?"

The King chuckled, sauntering over and looking up and around the place fondly. "My, I don't know. I suppose I'm hesitant to show off the new domicile to you, since you turned my last one into a bloody parking lot at those two lumberjacks' behest."

Not in the mood for Crowley's already virulent mood, Castiel just glared. "Those creatures were milked of their worth, you said it yourself. If I left them alive and they'd somehow escaped? Gotten out into the world? What then? Dean and Sam would have noticed, and surely they'd start asking questions I can't answer."

"Don't play the logic card on me, naked Columbo. Let's not forget who the brains of this outfit happens to be."

"What do you want?"

"What do I _want_?" Crowley asked, feigning innocence. "I just wanted to _remind_ you of our little arrangement."

Castiel's face remained hard and unfriendly. "I haven't forgotten."

"Is that so?" The demon was by all appearances calm and conversational. "Well, just for starters, let's rewind a bit to the last time you bothered to show up in person. I'd like to know what, _exactly_ , you were thinking," Crowley began, voice low and smooth… until suddenly he was flying into a fit of rage: "when you chauffeured the Winchesters and that little whore to our sodding old stomping grounds?!" The ringing silence was a stark contrast to the shouted outburst, echoing in the huge space, and Crowley fixed the stony angel with a critically admonishing look.

Castiel grew angry at the demon's audacity. Crowley was not his superior, and when he spoke as if he was, Castiel felt ancient fury boil in his veins. Crowley still refused to let the events at the old prison go—worse, he seemed to view Castiel as an apprentice of sorts in need of guidance on proper villainy.

_You're still just Castiel._

He was not a villain. He _wasn't_.

"I was _thinking_ that I was _playing along_ ," he replied hostilely. "The demon was in league with Sam and Dean by the time I arrived. Other than that, I made certain they believed your death, didn't I? What else was I supposed to do?"

Face twisted into an ugly, sarcastic expression, Crowley just sneered. "Oh, I don't know. Stayed _away_ , like I told you? How about not answering their bloody calls to begin with? You were supposed to arrive in the nick of time to save those damn hunters, not show up in the middle of the eleventh hour. If not for your untimely intervention, that little thorn in my side would have been a snack for my hounds and done for good."

" _You_ strayed from the plan—by sending hellhounds and involving the Campbells."

Ignoring the angel's bluster entirely, Crowley leaned closer and his voice took on a soft, warning tone. "Let me be blunt with you, trenchcoat. You can't be flitting down to earth and traipsing about with the boys right now. You can't be going 'round for a visit whenever the mood strikes. The more time you spend around the Winchesters, the more you risk them finding out about the dirty little details of our partnership. No house calls. You're _distracted_ , even now. And it's sure as hell more than some simple feud with the boys. _More_ than whatever dog's breakfast is happening upstairs." Crowley paced a slow circle around Castiel, who was getting stormier by the second. The demon shook his head, disgusted. "Christ, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you had a girlfriend."

Castiel bristled, saying nothing. He forged an expression of annoyance, of indifference. Crowley seemed to have composed himself, temper fizzing out, but he lost none of his gravity.

"Back on point. The Winchesters start asking _questions_ … like you said yourself, those questions will require _answers_. They keep digging, and they'll find out I never owned Sam's soul in the first place. They keep _prodding_ , and everything we've so carefully put into motion comes crashing _down_. Do you see the problem now?" There was a long, tense silence and Castiel, resigned and reluctant, understood that Crowley had a point. "They'll find out about what you and I are doing with Purgatory, mate…" Crowley's expression was serious. "They won't stand for it. They'll turn on you in a steaming second. Mark my words."

Castiel mulled over such a notion with trepidation, feeling suddenly restless. "They're my friends."

" _Please_." Crowley despaired at Castiel's naivety. Once more he invaded the angel's space, intense and trying to get him to wake up and listen to reason. "The beans get spilled, Purgatory might as well be Atlantis. They'll muck it up. They will _tear it down_ , and then Raphael takes you to the slaughterhouse."

"I have the weapons."

"The weapons don't help _me_ , Castiel. And it's not going to be enough for you, either. Deep down, you know it." Crowley shook his head. "Don't count on those bloody nukes, it'll bite you in the ass."

Castiel hesitated, considering Crowley's words. He knew it was what the humans called the moral gray area, what he was doing—partnering with the King of Hell to find and open a gate to the realm of monsters. To use the souls therein to defeat his own brother. But it was all a means to an end. A preferable means to an end? No, but it was the only way Castiel knew to stop the apocalypse from restarting. The Winchesters would want that, too. "Dean and Sam are reasonable," he said slowly, still in deep thought. "If I explain to them…"

"Is there no bottom to your ignorance?" Crowley asked, cutting him off. "These are the _Winchesters_. It's Captain America and Dudley Do Right. They find out you're working with me… our little arrangement? Trust me… when that happens, they won't be calling you _friend_."

Castiel knew the demon was ultimately right. That Dean especially would not stand for what Castiel was doing in the dark, in secret. He wondered briefly, hoping, if he might confide in Meg, but immediately thought better of it. She would react perhaps even worse than Dean would. For some reason, Meg despised the King of Hell more than he and Dean combined. She would hate him. She would revile him. Strangely, that thought upset him. It left Castiel with a miserable pit in his gut he rushed to ignore.

Still… lying to her, to all of them, felt abhorrent.

" _Inter arma enim silent leges. Finis coronat opus_. Good out of evil. Don't lose steam on me now, partner." As if reading into the angel's disposition, Crowley concluded, "They simply can't know. It has to stay a secret."

Castiel looked at him sharply, jaw clenched tight. He felt cornered and, as a result, defiant. "I tire of secrets."

"Cry me a river," Crowley said, disinterested, but then a sly smile grew on his face. It was one of pride. "You and I both know you've gotten good at keeping them, haven't you?" The demon turned smug, speaking again with more grandeur. "We're all enemies here. Each more a Judas than the last."

Castiel said nothing for a long moment, simply letting his glare say things he had no energy to speak aloud. Then, over the encounter and angry at how true everything Crowley had said was, the angel turned to go. "We're done here."

Crowley's soft, pleased chuckle paused him momentarily. "Why do you seem so surprised that this is a torrid little thing you and I've got going, hmm? You should have known." Castiel turned a little to look at Crowley with hard eyes. The demon waggled his eyebrows up knowingly. "That's just what you get, isn't it? Partnering with a demon."

Yes. He supposed it was.

The notion was toxic, forcing his mind elsewhere, and his reflections turned to the other torrid relationship in his life. His affair with Meg was something he often found himself thinking about, never able to rationalize or explain it, even to just himself. He knew it was wrong, of course he did. But no longer did he dread the moments spent shared with her. He almost looked forward to them now. They had their ups and downs—more the latter than the former, but even so. Not only did they serve as an idyllic reprieve from the stress and desolation that came from war and having to deceive those he cared about, they also afforded him comfort. It was absurdly perverse, but Meg was… becoming important to him.

Perhaps that was the problem, as Crowley's words had planted a seed of doubt.

Castiel did not enjoy his time spent with the King of Hell, but with Meg he very much did. Especially lately. That, in all likelihood, was where he'd gone wrong. Meg felt… safe, in a way. But only because of his aversion to Crowley. What if he _had_ no interaction with Hell's sovereign? Would he still feel the same about lying with a demon?

Was this where he'd gone wrong? Was this the beginning of an even darker path? After all, the greatest temptations were sins sought after and pursued. Partnering with Crowley was wrong, but he never enjoyed it. His relationship to Meg was very different. Not to mention that… Crowley was right.

Castiel was distracted.

Enjoying the angel's growing temper and guilt, Crowley milked it in his typical fashion. "I can see you're suffering a real stumper, I'll leave you to it. See you again when your next dose of super juice runs out."

Wordlessly, Castiel left the place before Crowley even could, righteous anger and a feeling of self-loathing coursing through him. What exactly _was_ he doing? With Crowley, with Heaven, this bizarre affair with Meg… well, at least with Crowley and Heaven he had an answer. He knew what he was doing there, or at least trying to do. _The right thing_ , he thought. He hoped. With Meg, it was completely indulgent, possibly selfish. But again, as it always did, the thought of purposely keeping the truth from Dean and Sam, even from Meg… it made him feel _wrong_. He didn't want to have to _lie_ to any of them, but Crowley was right. The more time Castiel spent with the Winchesters, even with Meg, the more risk of them finding out what he was doing. He could already tell that Meg knew he was up to something more than simply restoring Heaven and preventing a new armageddon. Still, the more he saw them, the more he would have to lie to protect himself to ensure that the plan to open Purgatory wouldn't be derailed. Being away from the boys was upsetting enough, but… more and more, the thought of being away from the demon with the smoky eyes and sharp smiles became harder to bear. Whatever time they'd been apart already was starting to feel _too long_. If it were up to Castiel, he would… well, the thought disturbed him. Mostly because his thoughts on the matter were more pleasant than they had any right to be.

He thought he might never leave her, given the choice.

But the war. His duties. The things that chained him to Heaven. As always, those things awaited.

* * *

_the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight_   
_drunk and driven by a devil's hunger_   
_into the water, let it pull him under_   
_don't you lift him, let him drown alive_

* * *

Three weeks passed without any contact between them. Twenty-one days. In that window of time, Castiel withdrew from not only the desires that had taken over him, both physical and emotional, but also from Meg herself. From the Winchesters. From everything. Earth became a memory, and he hadn't returned to it since. Not even for his coat, despite that he was somehow at odds without it. Crowley's parting words had burrowed too deep and continued to gnaw at him in those days, refusing him respite or selfish pursuits. The angel had been called on, prayed for, and phoned by both the demon and the hunters, but he didn't answer. Crowley, as much as it was painful to admit, was not wrong. Connections… _distractions_ cost lives. They were an endangerment. More, they were a weakness he could not afford.

However, Castiel was in desperate need of a distraction right now.

_Don't be reckless_ —words always spoken to Meg, it was a lecture not uncommon, but one he should have heeded himself. The extraction mission had been impulsive and bred from the heart. Yet another path he knew better to avoid, and yet ignored. Rachel thankfully had escaped, and she at least knew better than to come back for him. Unlike some, she still knew how to operate as a proper angel, a good soldier. His army would be in capable hands.

Even so, that likely wouldn't make a difference. No matter how he hoped otherwise, Castiel couldn't shed the forlorn realization that the war would be over regardless, should he perish here. Especially with this most recent defeat.

"The weapons belong once again to Heaven." The flat voice pierced through his ringing head, emotionless as a stone. "Now, you will tell us this strategy you are building against Raphael."

His faction's efforts would be fruitless without those weapons, and without _him_ they would truly be doomed.

"You know that I won't."

Castiel kept his voice calm despite the pain, his face as impassive as he could manage. Still, his attention strayed elsewhere to the slaughtered brothers and sisters just meters away. Dark wings lay scorched into the cold cement, where a small flurry of ashen feathers still gathered. They had been some of his bravest soldiers. These angels who believed in him, fought with him to their death and for a cause they barely understood.

He remembered their begging cries, calling out for him, and then ultimately their silence as they were murdered at his feet. He tried to shake the memory, retreating from those images, but they were branded into his skull. It was a grief too familiar, and all he seemed capable of holding these days. Castiel was accustomed to it now, as the last several years had brought him his fair share of it. Pain, though, had never been unknown to him. Being a warrior for Heaven meant living and breathing the sensation, especially in battle. At times, even in torture.

Similar to the tribulation he knew now.

This pain, however, was different. It was brighter, so much sharper, and felt with an intensity that was blinding. It was experienced on a level that would send a human being mad just before their body burned to ash. Every secret corner of his mind reeled with inconsolable ache, and only through great effort did Castiel resist the tempting pull of unconsciousness.

The chains rendered the flesh of his vessel raw and bloody within the shackles, but that was trivial in comparison. A fond memory when weighed against the unthinkable suffering he knew now.

Three spears, by his count. It felt like more.

It felt like his grace was ripping itself apart at the seams. Castiel drew in a ragged breath and looked around the room he was in, as much as his bindings would allow, and realized it had once been a church. Holy and sacred, a place of worship for Father before it had been defiled by this barbaric practice.

Irony, he supposed. Angels seemed to have a knack for it.

There was the faintest echo of God's presence in the shadows, in the dust, in the frame of the building itself. Even in the state of ruin it knew now, there was holiness. That should have been enough to give Castiel a measure of comfort in his current situation, but instead it brought him only more grief. It was a reminder of how alone he was. Here, in this destitute place, betrayed by his own kin in the midst of a war that never would have begun if Father hadn't left.

Castiel's wrists and legs were chained, the brick wall cold at his back. There were three binding spears shoved into his bones, draining his blood and his power with alarming speed. He struggled against the toxic effects, but such magic was insurmountable for any angel. It was how they'd trapped him so successfully. Even ensuing his recent consumption of new souls, that power was already tattered and shorn. With each labored breath, Castiel's throat caught painfully, his bright eyes dimming as the taint spread through him. His blade was too far away, left with the assortment of other instruments which sat guarded by a second enemy angel. Castiel tried calling it forth, but without his power, it didn't respond to him.

"You _will_ tell us," Ion repeated, harsher than before.

"No."

Two more angels flanked his interrogator; Daniel and Adina. Castiel knew their names but was determined to forget them. They had forsaken him in every way, forsaken the kin who lay dead at their feet. There had been seven more of Raphael's men, but in victory they had returned to Heaven for debriefing.

"He will burn you out," Ion said. "Raphael will show no mercy for silence."

"Then summon him, and let this be done."

Ion's expression grew fierce, a grave disappointment shining through that marble veneer. "You are our brother no longer, Castiel. You are wretched as the beasts beneath us, and you belong in the Pit. No…" he said then, thinking better of it. "You belong in the _Cage_."

Castiel said nothing, although the accusation stung almost as keenly as the magic shredding him to pieces.

Behind them, Daniel stepped forward, plucking a new spear from the velvet case. The weapon was ornate, riddled with Enochian sigilism and scripture, black as coal to the naked eye but steaming with poison to the heavenly host. Damaged as he was, Castiel could still sense its awful power. The sight brought him unease, and it sent dread shuddering through his body beneath the outward bitterness he wore.

The spear was handed to Ion as Daniel spoke. "Let us see how that angelic voice sounds when it's screaming and begging."

Vision darkening at the corners, hurting, Castiel tried to brace himself as best he could. Ion approached him, holding up the barbed point between them.

"Nothing to say, still?"

Receiving no response, he drove the spear into Castiel's side with a sharp thrust and watched as blue eyes lit up with pain.

Composure shattering, Castiel fought to maintain his stoic front. His jaw quivered and his entire body began to shake as white, blistering hot heat radiated from the new wound. This was a torment he had never wished to know. It eradicated all thought and restraint, what discipline he had falling away like rain. Tears filled his eyes from the sheer strength of it as Ion twisted the spear just a little more, watching as blood ran from the wound and covered the sanctified metal. Castiel gritted his teeth against the yell building in his throat as his power was stripped away slowly, strand by strand. The pain was so intense, so vivid, that he couldn't remember ever feeling anything else. His grace struggled against the damage being inflicted on it, slamming against the walls of the body he wore. A sharp ringing outburst from his true voice slipped through and every window in the building shattered.

"Another," Ion said tonelessly, extending a hand.

A fifth spear was placed in his palm and Ion took the golden hilt in a firm grasp. He watched pitilessly as dark lines crept up Castiel's throat from beneath the open collar. They resembled a patchwork of twisted vines, evidence of the awful battle taking place inside his host.

"Do you know the disappointment we felt? When you declared war on our home?"

"Where is that arrogant talk of freedom now?" wondered Daniel spitefully. Had he only known the taste of freedom himself, he might have spoken differently.

"He deserves this," said Adina.

"Freedom does not belong to angels," Ion went on. "It is beyond you. And it has led you to rot."

There was no reply. Only a fraught, quiet moan as grace tried futilely to reassemble itself.

Ion drove the next spear into his chest this time, feeling it slide between ribs and slice into a lung. The weapon was true to its purpose and sent shockwaves of ancient decimation through him, renting and tearing his grace apart as the others had before it. Castiel's eyes abruptly flared bright as another layer of his power was crushed.

Blood began to fill his throat from the wound before spilling over his lips and down his chin. A hitching, wet gasp slipped from him as Ion pushed the spear in deeper and the edges kissed bone. Castiel's body spasmed, all color draining completely from his face. A second quake tore through the building and rattled the very foundations under the weight of his angelic voice.

" _Tell us_ , Castiel! What is this war machine? What is this new weapon? You _will_ tell us!"

Castiel clamped his jaw shut and closed his eyes, fighting back a cry with whatever last vestiges of strength he had. He wouldn't scream. He would not. Just some time, he only needed a moment. The smallest distraction…

The blood welling up in his throat was choking him as he coughed, heart pounding frantically in a staggered beat that was starting to struggle and fail. Blue eyes were beginning to dull again as the body he was trapped in died around him. "Another," Castiel rasped out, weakly lifting his head so that he could face his brother with a defiant stare.

The angels would assume it a final act of rebellion. Not see it for the misdirect it was.

Sure enough, Ion scowled at the deliberate provocation, all too eager to fulfill Castiel's wish. The suited angel turned his back on him, reaching for the last spear himself. Castiel had already bowed his head, whispering the incantation under his breath. His voice was so battered it made barely a sound, but there was an arcane power embedded in the words—words so wrong and foreign to a son of Heaven.

" _Daemon, ipsa subiecto voluntati meam. Amarantha, ligandum eos partier coram me. Ego postulo auxilium tuum._ "

It was not a direct summoning, but she would hear. Whether or not she responded was her decision to make.

Either way, soon it wouldn't matter. Castiel was fading.

Ion turned back on him a moment later, angrier than before as they were running out of leverage. He snarled and clamped a hand around Castiel's neck, bringing their faces a mere few inches apart. "Perhaps we should rip out your grace completely," he decided then.

This time, without even waiting for a reply that would never come, Ion dropped the spear and shoved his hand through the fragile barrier of Castiel's vessel. It tore and ripped through flesh, striking home at the very core, the very spirit of his estranged brother. Cruel fingers gripped at the light he found there, pulsating like a heartbeat, and _pulled_.

Castiel's head snapped up, eyes screwing shut against an anguished gasp. He tried to retreat, but he had no strength left anymore. A deep growl of agony rolled through his broken chest at the horrid sensation of his very essence being torn from him. It was everything Castiel was, and the quickly spreading emptiness as his grace was stolen from within, each tenuous tendril snapping free… felt like utter desolation. Nothing but bitter cold as his connection to Heaven nearly became severed.

"Get the fuck away from him," a voice said suddenly.

The calm intonation was as deadly as an archangel's blade, slithering over every ear and bringing a chill to the desolate house of worship. All trace of holy remnant fled on a swift wind from the sinister presence. Ion abandoned his judgment, attention shifting over his shoulder as he turned away from Castiel. All three angels were shocked to see that there was now a demon in the room with them. They exchanged puzzled looks between each other, unable to comprehend this new development. The notion of fear didn't even occur to them, but it would soon.

Meg stood at the furthest end of the room, tempest personified. Her smoke curled and snapped around her in a violent gale, eyes gone black and fierce. Her gaze had found who it was looking for, and what it saw there made her blood boil. Castiel hung limply in chains, his head down and blood dripping from his mouth and body into a thick pool on the floor. Meg saw red.

"Who's first?" she asked foully, surveying the room and silently absorbing every miniscule detail.

The confusion had dissolved from the other angels in the room, replaced by wintry indifference. "Kill it," Ion said dispassionately.

Meg decided he would be last.

With ferocious and lethal force, she began laying into the angels. Castiel's blade was grabbed from the nearby stand in a blur of speed, the holy steel arching fast. It sliced through Adina's throat before the angel could even register danger, light spilling into the darkness of the room as her face went slack with shock. Meg didn't wait for retaliation. A split second later she already had the point of the weapon slamming up into Adina's chest. Grace poured from the wound and exploded outward at the killing blow, the angel's scream forgotten as Meg was already engaging the next one standing in her way.

Daniel attacked before she could withdraw the blade, his hand rushing to smite her. Meg ducked his reach, the two of them trading blows before she threw out a hand, calling the dropped spear from across the room. There was no time to worry if it might hurt her the way it had Castiel. Whatever it was, it did a number on angels. The weapon skidded over the floor towards her and she toed it into her hand in the midst of disarming Daniel, who stumbled roughly under the force of her attack. Locking one hand into the angel's collar from behind, she used the other to drive the spear through his back and up into his spine.

Daniel gasped and immediately crashed to the floor, the bones of his knees cracking from the force. Inexplicably, the angel's grace stuttered out like a dying star, so dim she barely recognized him as an angel anymore. Seizing the opportunity that vulnerability presented, Meg snapped his vessel's neck and drowned him power. Daniel crumpled over completely, by all appearances dead.

Before she could pivot back, an iron grip closed around her neck and propelled her through the air like a ragdoll against the opposite wall. She hit the brick hard, barely keeping her feet under her when she dropped. Ion was already in front of her, blade bearing down. Meg twisted away, the point embedding deeply into the wall. Ion tore it free, bricks shattering loose and crumbling around them. Savage power flew out of the demon like a punch, slamming into the angel and raking invisible claws over its grace. The two forces brawled a bit, darkness and light clashing in an electrical storm.

Ion's blade descended again and angel and demon became locked together as Meg caught his wrist.

"Submit, _fiend_ ," Ion thundered down at her through gnashed teeth. His will poured over her, eating away at malevolent strength.

"No chance in hell," Meg hissed back, the sharpened teeth of her true face baring in a gruesome smile. With carnal authority, she began to recite a Latin chant. " _Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco. Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco._ "

Ion's eyes widened to saucers at the crippling words and he staggered back a step. "No—"

Meg shoved him hard until his back hit the wall, overpowering him now. " _Aborro te ut_ ," she spat. Ion threw his head back, gasping out as light began to erupt from his eyes and mouth like liquid fire. Meg wrenched his blade away, tossing it across the room. " _Angelum omnium obsequendum_." His struggling became erratic and with a snarl, Meg pinned him to the spot by the throat. " _Domine expuet!_ " She was relentless. Black eyes refused to shrink back from the inferno as the angel began to break free from the vessel it had claimed. " _Domine expuet!_ "

Trespassing grace illuminated the entire room in a terrifying display. The building shook, dust and plaster raining around them. Lights above their heads started bursting.

" _Deum adempiremus veritas!_ "

In a violent flash of white, Ion was expelled from his vessel and banished back to Heaven. Meg released the body that remained and it slid to the floor in a heap as the air around them settled. She stared down with disdain for a moment before extending that sour look to the other two bodies at her flank.

"Kumbaya, assholes."

The demon turned away from them and set her eyes on the angel in chains. Castiel was deathly still, his face downturned from her. If it wasn't for the tremble that had settled into his limbs and the soft, pained gasp as he tried to move, Meg might have feared the worst. He was silent as she approached, skin shining and feverish the closer she got to him. The blood loss didn't appear to have stopped, either.

"Hey," she tried, shaking him gently. There was a low sound for her efforts, but his shoulders barely even twitched. Meg thought of how quickly the ginger angel had gone down when she put just one of those rebar-looking things through him. Castiel had five. "Jesus, how nasty do these things bite?"

" _Adphaht_ ," he managed out, sounding almost delirious.

"You're not stuck in some cloudhoppy mumbo jumbo mode, are you?" Meg reached up and slid her hands over his face, tilting it so that she could see him. Castiel's skin was a worrying shade of gray, his eyes glassy and filled with pain as they flickered open. "Where's your language setting, Clarence?"

"Sorry," he murmured. "Everything scattered."

"Look at me. Hey."

It took much longer than it should have, but Castiel's eyes eventually focused on Meg's face and he gave a meager nod. "I am with you."

"Good. Keep it that way." Castiel's eyelids fluttered, his head lolling until she held him steady. "What the hell did they do to you?"

The demon glanced at the massacred mess that was his torso, hoping to catch some glimpse of the angel's miraculous healing powers returning, but his condition stayed the same. She suspected what would need to come next, and grimaced.

"Doesn't matter," he rasped. For the first time, Castiel seemed to realize the other angels were dead, discluding Ion who had been banished. Meg had dealt with them all, virtually weaponless. In those charged moments, her wrath had contested even the heavenly host. Through waning consciousness, stirrings of awe began to filter into his voice. "How… how did…"

"Baby, I've got a whole sleeve full of tricks you don't know about."

"Don't call me that."

"How do I get these out?" she asked, appraising the damage. A note of concern had leaked into her voice as she realized this was going to get messy.

Castiel's head fell back against the wall as he closed his eyes. "The painful way."

"Fun," Meg said wryly. She pursed her lips at the dirty work set out before her. "Say when."

"When…?"

She wrenched the first one out and Castiel screamed, voice catching hoarsely at the surprise burst of pain. Meg held him down against the wall as he instinctively tried to curl up around his wounds. "Don't move, don't move."

Even so, as the first one pulled free, the angel felt like he could breathe again. He sucked in a deep breath, savoring the relief it brought. At his back, wings quivered with similar contentment. Castiel reacted to the others with tight grunts as they were removed, eyes wired shut and jaw clenched, but for the most part each hurt less coming out than the one before.

By the end of it, he was panting and covered in sweat, but already he looked better than he had when she found him. He'd gotten some color back, and the ugly-looking lines around his neck seemed to have begun to fade.

Meg glanced over the last spear with an inquiring frown. "Why didn't I think of these? Clever." She tossed it away, turning her eyes back on the angel. "I hurt just looking at you."

Castiel made some noncommittal sound, leaning on her dependently as he sagged in the chains. The metal broke apart with a lazy flare of her power and clattered at their feet. Castiel swayed forward, bearings deserting him without the support of the shackles.

Meg caught him in her arms, keeping him upright. "Easy there, tough guy. You good to stand?"

"Fine."

Awareness began to slowly filter back, along with the angel's pride. It no longer felt as though he was choking up tar, for one thing, and there was something to that victory, however small. And whether the room continued to pitch around him or not. Still, as the saying went: he was far from out of the woods. The worst of it was soon to come.

"Uh huh." Meg was dubious at the very least. Not waiting for permission, she ducked under his arm to brace him and shoulder some of the weight. "Don't tell me you'd rather pull a Dumpty and drop flat on your face than ask for a helping beastie to lean on."

"I called on you."

"True," Meg admitted as they began to walk. She decided it would have just been easier to throw him over her shoulder like a holy sack of potatoes. Castiel might actually try to smite her if she did that, though. She stooped down a bit, plucking his blade from Adina's body. "Lose something else? First that damn coat, now your shiny toy. You're a hot mess, Clarence."

Castiel's breathing was ragged from the exertion of movement, but as he took in his dead captors, he managed a few words. "I am… impressed."

"Well now, that sounds an awful lot like 'thank you.'"

Castiel groaned, stumbling a bit and pausing to regain his footing. His head swam. "'Impressed' does not sound anything like 'thank you,'" he said after a moment. There was a pit in his stomach like something unpleasant had taken refuge there, chest still aching as though it were on fire.

Meg helped hitch his posture up a little higher as she kicked the door open. "Maybe you could humor the girl who just saved your ass," she grunted as they staggered out into the fresh air. "You're not gonna die on me, are you?"

"N… no."

"'Cause if anyone's gonna punch your ticket, Castiel, it'll be me."

"I said I'm…"

Once they were free of the building, Castiel finally gave in to the allure of unconsciousness and blacked out.

* * *

_take me to church_   
_I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife_   
_offer me my deathless death_   
_good God, let me give you my life_

* * *

Hands pinning him down, knives digging in.

A weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

Grace shrieking. Will crumbling. A tool poised over his eye. The bone-chilling _whir_ of sound as it inched closer. What _was_ this?

His own voice but different somehow shouting _no, no, NO!_

_Hurts_.

Loud, everything loud. He was a hurricane leashed to a shell of blood and bone and flesh, a comet—sound should not have had any sway over him. The vessel that held him was surely in the throes of death, wracked with tremors and too hot. So very hot.

The vision vanished, chased by many more. Each confusing and consuming.

Wings. Please, not his _wings_.

His own blood.

_Father, I am here! Help me!_

The blood of his siblings. On his hands, on his blade. Bathing his feet.

In the distance, a mountain spilled fire.

His truevoice called out of its own mind, well past the borders of earth and its stars. Before, Castiel had known this moment would come. He never expected that it would feel like this though, as the poison bled away. His mind, in the meantime, didn't remember being captured or what was done to him—didn't remember anything. Only flailed and lashed out at whatever was keeping him prisoner now.

A present darkness, hovering at the edge of his senses. _Demon_ —there was a demon closing in.

_It must be destroyed! Vrgel!_

A voice not his own pierced suddenly through the void, whispering a rush of comfort as something closed over his hand and held tight.

* * *

_the good Lord speaks like a rolling thunder_   
_let that fever make the water rise_   
_hold my hand, oh baby_   
_it's a long way down to the bottom of the river_

* * *

Castiel felt awareness slowly return. Inhaling sharply, his eyes dragged open and he found himself on the bed of some obscure motel room. Nightfall had come, much of the evening having slipped away from him. Threadbare blankets were coarse beneath his weight, and a sluggish glance to the right found his suit jacket and shirt flung over a chair. Turning his head too quickly caused the room to spin and strange spots flared over his vision. The nausea he'd been experiencing earlier returned full force. Castiel screwed his eyes shut against the unpleasant feeling.

"Welcome back, Dorothy. That was a hell of an acid trip."

The voice came from only a few feet away. Risking another spell of vertigo, the angel reopened his eyes to see Meg beside him, seated on the edge of the bed. There was a bowl of water and blood-soaked bandages on the nightstand that she exchanged for clean ones. She seemed almost wary of him, a strange mutilation hanging off her smoke that carried the weight of ozone and the authority of Heaven.

"Did you bring me here?"

A ghost of some secret smile filled her face under the glow of the nearby lamp. "Sack of potatoes," she said, revealing nothing else.

That baffled him, but he let it go. The quiver of her smoke was too distracting. "Why are you hurt? What…"

Why was it so difficult to piece together words? Speech eluded his grasp, drifting just out of reach. Castiel felt as though his body was dropping through the bed and then alternatively rising untethered towards Heaven. Once more, the world tilted and rolled. Meg's voice drifted over him again, droning low in the unlit room.

"Hush little angel, don't say a word."

It was only after those words that Castiel realized he'd been muttering broken Enochian under his breath, and then calling Meg's name when there was no response. It felt like he was losing time. Everything felt orderly and as it should until he realized it wasn't. He said her name again, wondering why he was falling.

Why was he falling?

" _Apachana. Noromi adgmach faboan_."

"Whatever nasty business you got from those pokers isn't out of your system yet. You've been spewing that chicken scratch for about an hour. I think I'm almost fluent."

" _Ollor bng ashh darbs_ ," Castiel whispered, eyelids fluttering again as the world went dark. " _Oiad ashh darbs. Oiad hohorala oi baltoh_."

"Broken record, Cas. Rest."

" _Hoath_ …"

* * *

_her fight and fury is fiery_   
_oh but she loves_   
_sweet and right and merciful_   
_I'm all but washed in the tide of her_   
_and it's worth it, it's divine_

* * *

That awareness came and went, too fickle for his peace of mind, or for Meg's. Four more times he sank into a fitful abyss and had to crawl back into consciousness. How long had it been?

Apparently the question was spoken aloud, because Meg answered.

"You were pretty out of it for about three hours after I hauled you here," she relayed.

_Pretty out of it_ , as it turned out, was an understatement. Those first few hours had found Castiel thrashing aimlessly and shouting ancient words beyond her understanding. It was an angel lost to fever and hallucinations as the poison worked its way out of his vessel. In his disorientation, he'd lost control and nearly killed her. If he hadn't been so weak, he might have succeeded. Grace flared under distress and reacted to her darkness in exactly the way it was meant to. That she was trying to help him didn't matter—it sensed a threat and sent Castiel into some wild state of self-defense. She'd had to retreat several times, struggling to suppress his grace with her power as it fought against her like a wounded animal. Despair had been a thousand Enochian prayers, swarming chaotically in his head and spilling out into the world. Something outside had caught fire, which Meg thought fucking _strange_ , but she decided the staff could deal with it.

As abruptly as it started, the delirium had ceased and Castiel gained a much more decent hold of his bearings. After his violent outbursts, there were the catatonic ramblings, but now that enough time had passed, he seemed more with it. Even as he shivered unexpectedly, the aberration stemming from his ordeal, most of his symptoms were gone.

"This is a nice change of pace." At his furrowed look, Meg elaborated. "Usually you're the one playing doctor."

Castiel shifted a bit as Meg slid the needle through the raw edges of his skin. He glanced down at his topless form and gave another restless shift.

That earned him a genuine laugh. "After all the scandalous things we've done together, this is what gets your dander up?" The space around them was quiet as they spoke, voices mingling softly. "Trust me, a shirtless and unconscious angel is not as fun as it sounds."

"It isn't that. I'm… cold."

The sensation was off-putting and uncomfortable. He didn't like it.

"Mm." Meg shook her head, muttering, "Still. Even unconscious and ass-reamed, that grace packs a punch." Pausing, she reached over her shoulder and tossed another blanket over him.

Castiel now understood the reason for her previous hesitation and unfortunately the damage to her smoke, and he felt regret. "It's a defense mechanism, when we're especially vulnerable. Anything it perceives as a threat…"

Meg shrugged, appearing unconcerned. "You'd think it would have cozied up to me by now." She patted his stomach. "Here, sit up."

Castiel obeyed, pushing himself upright with some effort. He groaned as he eased back against the headboard, and Meg's eyes flicked to his as she worked.

"What the hell were those things?"

He felt her gaze drift to the awful wounds that still resisted his healing. Her fingers grazed over one, trying to puzzle out what could have done such damage to an angel. " _Allar Nazad_ ," he said. "They're binding spears—a very powerful and very dangerous weapon of Heaven. Shredders of grace." Castiel frowned, becoming very somber. "I haven't seen them in over a thousand years. Our superiors said they were too barbaric."

"Looks like Raphael is going old school, huh?"

Castiel watched the needle with unseeing eyes, his voice becoming quiet. "I expected better from him."

Meg stilled in her work, giving him a pointed look. "Well, there's your problem."

Castiel ignored that, instead attempting to get comfortable as she secured the first bandage over his chest. His eyes swept over her pensively, drinking in the picture she painted. Her jacket was tossed aside over his, hair piled up into a messy bun, and Castiel couldn't help but think how ordinary she looked like that. The sight was undeniably lovely. Conversely, that weariness he'd sensed on her before was no more; thorns sharper, her darkness denser. Couple that with the unholy devastation she wrought on his enemy brethren, she was the very incarnation of the creature he'd met over a year ago. Formidable and deadly.

"You look very well."

"As opposed to half-dead?" Meg's expression softened into a teasing quirk, one of which he'd become too familiar with. She'd taken advantage of his absence, holing up, gathering strength and strategy. Castiel had ultimately been right, though she'd never tell him that. The demon felt stronger now than she had in awhile. "Maybe I took your advice to heart."

"That's… surprising."

"Trying to say I'm stubborn or something?" Castiel grunted and Meg chuckled to herself. "When do you get your juice back?"

"I can already feel it. The process of its full return will be slow, but… manageable."

"Guess that means I dodged the babysitting bullet."

Castiel frowned at that, her choice of words somehow upsetting him. "I am not a baby."

"Still stuck on that figure of speech, aren't you? I can't decide if it's annoying or cute."

"Idiom or not, I don't like it."

"Sore subject, got it." Without fanfare, Meg allowed the matter to drop. Curiosity got the better of her then, compelling her next question. "Why'd you drop a line on me?"

Why her, out of everyone? An angel calling on a demon for aid was a new level of bizarre, even for them. But the second she'd heard his voice, every avenue of former pursuit had been abandoned. She'd been halfway across the world, unearthing legends of some First Blade that Crowley had apparently been after before his death. In a blink, though, she'd gone running to the angel. Without question. Her unfounded loyalty startled her a bit, but like most things with Castiel, she swept it away so as not to have to deal with it.

The angel was considering her closely now, as though he wondered her reasons for asking. Dark eyes regarded him seriously, more patient than he could ever remember seeing them.

"I wasn't sure who I could trust."

Her eyebrow crept high. "But you thought you could trust _me_?"

It was more than that, and yet that was exactly it. His soldiers would have died if it meant he lived. He needed someone strong and capable who would never give their lives for him. Meg was that someone. She wouldn't die for him. She'd die for no one but herself.

"You want to survive," he said, the words carrying weight. "We'll leave it at that."

But something about the look in her eyes… how she tended to him now… it was almost enough to make him reconsider his estimations. Perhaps he did trust her.

His response seemed to appease her. "You angels are like lemmings," she agreed, returning to her task. "So ready to sacrifice yourself for any righteous cause you can get your hands on. You practically trip over each other trying to die. Still… it's been awhile since I've tangoed with you scary fucks." She smirked a little, fingers crawling teasingly over his ribs. "Well. The tango with weapons, anyway."

Castiel felt his own faint smile. "You say that, but you're not afraid of us. Not like other demons."

He couldn't help but praise her. Her excellent agility and experience made her an impregnable wall against most enemies. Castiel thought the demon must have fought many battles from disadvantageous positions, bounding through fatal odds like a ghost and living on. He wondered if she had been a soldier of some sort when she'd been human.

"I suppose I am a little. Just too stupid for it to matter, I guess." Meg lifted a strip of medical tape for him to hold. Castiel wordlessly complied, allowing her to stick it over his thumb until she needed it. "Fighting when you're scared makes you something. If nothing scares you, you're just crazy." She granted him with one of her harlequin smiles. "But maybe I'm a little of that, too."

Castiel's regard of that was ruefully fond. "Yes," he agreed softly.

"When I showed up, it looked pretty bad." When the angel offered nothing to that, Meg pressed a little more. "He was ripping out your grace, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Would you have died?"

"Under normal circumstances, no. But with the _Nazad_ , it would have been instantaneous." Castiel was grim, his eyes skirting away from hers. "It was meant as an insult. Killing me by first stripping me of who I was. Forcing me to die as a human, instead of an angel."

"That's pretty cold for a bunch of fuzzballs who're supposed to sit on clouds all day, playing harps."

"Only the Cherubim play harps."

"You know what I mean."

Castiel replied with a solemn nod. He did understand. "Angels haven't been angels for a very long time." At first, he spoke as if he wasn't even one of them, until the point came where Meg wondered if it was perhaps more personal than he intended. "We've forgotten who we are. We're not of earth, but we also aren't the barbaric creatures we've turned ourselves into." Castiel shook his head, his voice becoming softly introspective and showing much more emotion than she was used to seeing on him. "I don't understand what's become of us. Mindless servants, no matter how heinous the cause." His own words caused his face to fall and suddenly he looked too vulnerable. "We're confused and scattered and listening to the wrong voices."

"You think it's because God left?"

"Perhaps."

Castiel remembered a time when Meg had mocked him for an absent father. But there was no mockery in her words now. "You're not like them."

A rueful look showed at her comment and he looked down briefly as his face settled into that expression. "I am… different," he said simply, his gruff voice laced with the faintest trace of chagrin.

Meg took in his noble profile as he looked away, taking the time to really look at him. The shadow of stubble, the little wrinkles and worry lines that made his face a roadmap of uncharted emotion. The shaggy, tousled hair that curled behind his ears. The graceful dip where his jaw ended and neck began. "In most ways," she added idly, unable to keep the barest evidence of veneration from her tone.

"It used to bother me very much," Castiel admitted. "That I wasn't like the others. Perhaps it still does."

"Different is better, Clarence. It's how the world changes—whether for better or worse."

His eyes found hers again, and his softening expression inched towards hope. "You really think that?"

"How could I not?"

Castiel had no good answer to that, but seemed content with her reply all the same.

"That angel I sent back to Oz—will he be a problem?"

"He might be." Castiel hesitated, speaking carefully. "You only exorcised him."

"If I'd had another weapon on me, his trip would have been more permanent."

"I wouldn't have expected you to know that spell. Although, I suppose I should have."

Meg smiled a little, nudging his thigh with her knee. "What, did somebody miss the memo that you mooks could be exorcised, too?"

"I knew we could be." Castiel grew cagey, avoiding her eyes as he spoke again. "Alistair… tried to use the spell on me once. Sam stopped him before I was cast out."

Alistair, the master torturer in Hell. Who Meg had apprenticed under with flying colors.

"Oh."

Contrition was an unusual thing for Meg, but Castiel caught its fleeting path as it spread from her face to her eyes. More predictably, she avoided the topic neatly, to his relief. "How'd you get caught in the first place?"

"Raphael's followers captured a small faction of my soldiers. Tonight was intended to be a rescue mission."

"And did you save them? Any of them?"

Guilt and grief were permanent fixtures on his face as he replied. "No."

"What the hell does that tell you?"

It told him this war would be won only through Pyrrhic victory. That his cause would continue to incur terrible losses, no matter how much he gave and sacrificed to ensure otherwise. Her wry tone was a reminder of his overhanging failure and Castiel felt hopelessly inadequate. "I had to try."

Sharp features softened and she withheld her retort. With another sigh, Meg looked into his face and tried to puzzle out what he was thinking. "You lost the weapons, didn't you? Damn archangel exploited your weakness and because of it, you left the nukes in the open."

Castiel looked away. "Yes."

"And those spears… that's how they were able to take you out?" She'd seen how he'd laid waste to the angels before. To demons, monsters, and everything in between. Castiel did not go gently and he was a force of nature. He was dangerous in ways unfathomable, and when he set his mind to wrath, there were rarely survivors. It would take one hell of a trick to decimate him like that.

He nodded heavily at her assumption. "The effect is immediate."

Meg said nothing else, leaving him in silence with his thoughts. He wished she would say something else, if only to spare him that. More and more, as the months crept on and he lost more of his kin, Castiel found that he hated being a leader. Too many people counting on him, too many people dying. No matter how hard he tried, they were losing ground against Raphael. This loss of the heavenly weapons would be devastating. Already, he could hear the stressing calls of Balthazar and Rachel, as well as many others. So many voices filling his head, so much fear. Castiel had sent his reply across the distance, instructing them to retreat for now. To leave him until he could recover.

As weak as he was, Castiel knew the souls of perdition had kept him alive during that session of torture. No angel should have endured that. The power was dimmer now, siphoned brutally under the influence of the _Nazad_ , but it kept him grounded. It was a buzz in the back of his mind, ever-present and a dark reminder of what he was becoming.

_What is the war machine,_ Ion had demanded. _What is the weapon?_

Castiel wondered if they would have believed him, had he told them the truth.

He was the war machine. The weapon was Castiel.

The souls were his power, and he was becoming dependant on them. It was impossible to ignore the way his vessel and grace both craved that deplorable strength, weighing him down. Castiel loathed himself for enjoying it.

Maybe he wasn't even an angel anymore. He was turning himself into something else, something twisted. He was in league with the King of Hell. He had declared _war_ on Heaven.

_You're asking me to be the next Lucifer_.

His own words, haunting him without end beneath the fog of war. Pride had sworn he was above Satan, but his actions were frighteningly similar. As much as he was desperate for victory, that the sacrifices not be in vain… Castiel doubted himself. He wondered what Meg would say, if she knew. If she'd be disgusted. If she'd be _proud_. The angel wasn't sure which would be worse.

Regardless of consequence, he was becoming desperate to know the end of this, so threadbare inside.

_It can't be for nothing_ , he thought. _The Winchesters fought too hard. They've given too much. And I have come too far._

"Hey."

The sudden brush of her fingers beneath his chin broke Castiel from his reverie. He finally looked at her, wondering why she appeared to be waiting for something. "What?"

"Were you even listening?"

He ducked his eyes, skirting hers. "Sorry."

Meg considered him thoughtfully, her expression thawing. "Don't be sorry."

He felt that heady feeling in the pit of his stomach as his eyes found hers again. Unable to help the instinct to confide in her, Castiel asked, "Am I foolish?"

That surprised her. His normally stoic gaze was full of sorrow and questions he didn't know how to ask. "Probably. But… knowing you, you'd be more miserable doing nothing. So, just keep going. Hell, I believe in you."

Something like hope made his insides knot. "Do you?"

Meg clapped her hands together a few times for effect. "I do, I do," she told him, with that teasing smile that only halfway reached her eyes.

Castiel thought that must have been a reference of some sort, but unexpected candor made him confess something else. "I'm glad you're here."

Caught off guard, Meg stewed a moment, searching for a response. "Well. Lucky for you, I've always been a sucker for a lost boy." She secured the final bandage over his injuries. "What about this other thing you have going?"

"I haven't lost that."

"You never told me what exactly Plan B was."

Castiel shook his head. "You're safer not knowing."

"Oh?" There was a lingering challenge beneath the word. "I'm safer, or you're safer?"

Castiel felt a buzz of nerves, an inclination of warning seeping into his tone. "It's not of import. If you needed to know, I would share its details."

Her derisive laugh rang bitter. The dismissal left her more affronted than she cared to admit, but it didn't stop her acid retort. "That's just a cheap way of saying—"

"Meg. _Enough_."

The anger came out of him before he could stop it. Even though there was no outward power behind his reply, something hidden and dangerous shook itself to life. Meg felt her insides immediately coil, for reasons she couldn't explain, and a mild tremor crawled down her spine. Dusky eyes were calculating, smoke flaring up a bit defensively. By the look on Castiel's face, he clearly had caught himself and was now regretting his outburst.

She had to remind herself that whatever set him off likely had nothing to do with her. The shit was hitting the fan up in heaven, spilling across the earth in consequence, and his mind was occupied with higher deeds. Still, even as his dark expression leant towards a greater purpose, there had been something quietly terrifying about that anger, especially when there was no grand storm surrounding it. Meg couldn't put her finger on it, but she made sure he knew by her expression that she didn't appreciate it. "Tell me, don't tell me." She sat back with a grudging scowl, thorns knotting around her. "But don't try to bullshit me."

Castiel was repentant. "You really are safer." All wrath in his gaze faded, replaced with deeper grief. He was losing too many as it was. Meg seemed unconvinced though, and he decided this conversation was better left incomplete. They stared at each other awhile before he finally glanced down at his bandaged form. "You didn't have to do this."

"You don't have to butter me up," she countered, her tone still somewhat wry. "You're much more useful to me alive than dead."

He was getting better at seeing through her farces. He looked at her more tenderly, now that some of the lingering tension had subsided. "Thank you." At her floored expression, the corners of his mouth tugged apart. "I'm not above gratitude to a… beastie."

Castiel was glad for his spontaneous reply, because the effect it had on her was rewarding. The underlying gravity had clearly startled her at first, surprise washing over her face and making her beauty seem less cold.

Meg's slow smile was without barb, just reaching the edges of her eyes. "I'll be damned," she said, drawing a humored grunt out of him. "You really are trying to earn brownie points, aren't you? For the next time you're stuck in a jam."

"I'm not sure what that means."

"Sure you're not." Meg considered him a moment. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

She wondered when that became his response instead of the world-weary resignation he used to confront her with. "Why are you still here?"

"I can't go anywhere in this condition."

"Yeah, I got that. But that's not what I'm talking about. You haven't even looked at a monster in almost a month, much less gone looking to hogtie one. You don't have time for it, besides. Which means you don't need me anymore."

Castiel felt that same distant pull that he'd always felt around her, a slave to it. With some clarity, he decided there'd be no resisting it this time. "Your company isn't quite the… burden I used to associate it with." Softer then, he said, "I find it difficult to be rid of you, body or mind."

The honesty, not to mention his sincerity, took her completely off guard. Castiel smiled a little, looking worn out but just a little more content.

"I was right," he said then. "'Thank you' sounds nothing like 'impressed.'"

Laughter bubbled out of the demon beside him and she swatted his arm. "Dick."

That laughter was infectious. Briefly, Castiel forgot what had been weighing so heavily on his mind. "Insufferable creature."

Her reaction to that was approving. "Damn, I've missed Grumpstiel."

"You do have an annoying habit of erasing my ill moods."

"I could blaspheme. I know that's one of your favorites."

He sighed.

"Not to start something, but it felt like maybe you were avoiding me, for awhile." Meg's fingers played idly over his arm, luring answers out of him he wished to be kept hidden. "Didn't anyone ever tell you girls hate it when you ignore their calls?"

"I wasn't on earth," Castiel replied, expression falling a bit. "Ignoring you was… unintentional."

"What, no cell reception in Heaven?" Meg clearly wasn't buying his meager excuse, but let it go without further comment. She seemed closer than she had before.

"Keeping in contact with anyone has become…"

Castiel allowed himself a moment to see her. It was strange how, in all the many years he'd observed and interacted with humanity, he had never been so affected by one woman as he was with this demon. He'd found the occasional one appealing to look at, of course. This even included the disaster at the brothel which Dean took him to almost two years prior. But nothing compared to the fire she stoked inside of him. Castiel didn't even feel like the same angel who had spilled assurances to a young woman about her postman father abandoning her.

The words spilled out of him before he could stop them. "Crowley was right. It's…" He looked upwards only briefly, all former placidity fracturing beneath a guilt-ridden frown. "It's not going well for me in Heaven. Not at all."

Castiel was difficult to read, though he clearly thought something. His deliberations were personal, however. Maybe even beyond her comprehension. He did like reminding her of that. "Desperate times, huh?"

"I can't think of a time when I've ever been more desperate."

He was lying to her. The realization shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. Relentless, it ate away at him—a constant voice in the back of his head, reminding him that what he was doing was despicable. Using her, manipulating her. Being intimate with her even as he plotted with her greatest enemy behind her back.

Castiel was unable to meet her eyes any longer. Exhausted, he tipped his head back against the headboard in defeat. His tone was dark and upset in the time it took him to find the words. "Not even you can imagine what I've done."

Meg saw the weight of the universes piled high on his shoulders. "Bad people don't hate themselves for doing bad things. In my experience."

That intrigued him. Castiel lifted his head again, studying her change in expression. "Do you hate yourself for the things you've done?" he asked after awhile, drawing the valor to look her in the eye.

No answer.

"That was… too much," he realized, discerning her reaction without having to be told.

Meg glanced at him as she busied her hands once more, seeing recognition cross his features and something like respect. They were both stumbling around in the desert. The vultures were circling, and whatever water they found was likely to drown them. That fleeting realization was soon succeeded by something passionately resolute. "Don't worry, featherbrain. Your reasons for doing all this are what's gonna save you in the end. Don't forget that."

Her delivery was blithe enough, but Castiel could feel the weight behind her soft reassurance. "I'm still just Castiel," he said quietly to himself, echoing her own words to him. The declaration seemed hollow and empty.

He would kill Crowley for her. Of course he would. But not yet. It had to wait.

Just a little longer.

_Please, just a little longer._

_Finis coronat opus_ , rang Crowley's sovereign counsel in his head. To hear them again even in the discretion of his own mind brought Castiel an impulse to retch, but the reminder was necessary. _The end crowns the work_.

"You sure you know what you're doing?"

Meg's voice was calm and grounding beside him, despite the gloomy undercurrent the words carried. Castiel lifted his gaze to hers reluctantly, searching her eyes hopelessly. "What other choice do I have?"

_I am not the villain._

Meg allowed that remark to fall between them heavily, unable to deny her understanding. "Want me to stick around?" she asked instead. She saw the dark bags under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged and his eyelids drooped. The spears had certainly done a number on him, and Castiel wasn't going anywhere for quite awhile.

"That isn't necessary."

"That's not what I asked."

The room had gradually fallen dark, its only illumination served by the few candles Meg had lit when the lights had been hurting his eyes. Castiel could still make out her silhouette, details eluding him the harder he looked. It was strange, not being able to see as he willed, while the effects of his torture continued to fade. He remembered the loss of his powers before, after carving a banishing sigil into his chest, and it had not been pleasant.

He also remembered waking up in that hospital bed alone, and how the feeling of true isolation had gripped him with icy talons—no matter how fleeting it was.

Castiel considered Meg beneath the swoop of drowsy eyes, her presence chaotic as ever but ultimately assuaging. Feeling her near was not unpleasant. In fact, it was growing to be something he depended on as the months progressed. Being away from her for so long was something he found to be… disagreeable. A feeling that left him strangely bereft and one he had no desire to repeat anytime soon.

"You can stay."

* * *

He gave her the wardings necessary to keep him hidden from his enemies, and Meg placed them around the shanty room accordingly. Castiel assured her those wards would be enough for the time he needed to recover, but Meg ignored his encouragements that she was not obligated to him. It would be a long night, and so she busied herself with idle entertainments while he rested. Mostly she kept silent vigil, paging through the occasional gossip rag and trying to entertain herself with celebrity hairstyles and who had made who pregnant, but the nonsense just couldn't hold her interest. She paced for several minutes, checking the wards and the door before she was eventually satisfied.

As Castiel drifted in and out of unconsciousness, Meg sat now at the table near the window, staring out the pebbled glass and into the rain. She drummed her nails lightly on the tabletop, the very picture of casual, even as she remained alert and ready for any threat. With Castiel's guard down, he needed more than just a few wards to protect him.

The shitty television droned on in the background of her sentry duty, _The Greatest American Hero_ being the current program at this ungodly hour. It was running some old marathon on one of the few and only channels this motel apparently got. She'd turned it on for white noise, but before long she was humming the theme song under her breath in time with her fingers.

Her hair was let back down, leather jacket once more over her shoulders. She was battle-ready, if anyone came looking. But as she glanced over her shoulder to the sleeping angel on the bed, her militant veneer began to chip away. He was curled up almost like a cat, broad shoulders shuddering slightly as the last of the toxins worked their way out of his vessel. She'd lost count how many times he'd vomited up streams of blood into that stupid ice bucket, croaking that it was unpleasant but necessary. Meg had wanted to punch him for getting himself into such a mess in the first place. He was starting to heal finally, but for some reason the sight of him like that had caused an ache to go through her. He'd looked so ready to die in that church and that wasn't… right.

That must have been how the angel had felt, frustrated at her for stumbling so far off her game. In hindsight, she didn't blame him one bit. Having still not looked away, Meg swept her eyes up his body, over his chest and face, lingering too long on his injuries and willing them gone. It was strange how he could look so small when those layers of clothing were removed. Like armor, stripped away. It wasn't so different when they were breaking furniture and shattering lights together. There was something foreign and raw to see him so uncollected, but in the midst of passion it was much more appealing. Right now she just wanted him back on his feet again and decimating anything that stood in his way.

Another episode was starting. Before long, she was singing the show's catchy theme softly to herself, unaware at first that she was. " _Look at what's happened to me. I can't believe it myself_." The tune promised to be stuck in her head for the next few days, at least. " _Suddenly I'm up on top of the world. It should have been somebody else. Believe it or not, I'm walking on air. I never thought I could feel so free_ —" Snapping out of her inanimate musings, she noticed Castiel stirring awake. Maybe she'd been too loud. "Sorry, Clarence. I'll pipe down."

The angel made a quiet sound, settling a bit. "Keep singing," he murmured, already drifting again.

Icy features thawed into something much softer, and the demon's lips drew into a faint smile.

Castiel was tired, battered, and mourning. Longing for an eternity of placid awareness and certitude. Meg really couldn't blame him. She remembered things being simpler too, remembered being simpler herself. Still somehow, he always managed to carry her in ways larger than his priorities should have allowed. Seeing this, watching him in action, watching him fall and reach for her before anyone else, expanded her heart. That was how it felt: a space in her chest growing larger to make room for Castiel. The little tree topper who cast her into flame.

He was changing her.

In so many inconceivable ways, he was. That realization and the emotions swimming inside her were foreign and crippling. In wake of it, Meg had suddenly been given the gift and curse of hope, when so many times before that notion had failed her. Hidden away beneath the fractious exterior and conceited affectations, a part of her believed that Castiel would never betray that faith.

" _Flying away on a wing and a prayer. Who could it be? Believe it or not, it's just me_."

* * *

_I never saw you coming_   
_and I'll never be the same_   
_you come around and the armor falls_   
_pierce the room like a cannonball_   
_now all we know is don't let go_

* * *

Morning found Castiel as himself again. With surety and steady hands, he donned his armor. Before he could reach for his tie, though, Meg was already securing it around his neck. Her eyes found his as she knotted it loosely, glad to see him standing tall and proud again, but knowing how easily a scenario like yesterday could happen again.

"Something's still missing, Clarence." Her tone was lightly teasing, but her eyes held something heavy as she reached into her bag on the nightstand and pulled out his folded trenchcoat.

The sight of it in her hands affected Castiel in ways he couldn't quite identify, and, gingerly, he took it from her and slid it back over his shoulders where it belonged.

"I appreciate you holding onto it for me."

"Don't stay away so long this time," she told him. Castiel could confuse humor on the best of days, and Meg's somewhat uncertain tone didn't help matters. He heard her words for what they were and nodded solemnly. "You tend to run into trouble when you do. Put that page back in my book."

His hands remained at his sides as he regarded her hesitantly. "I'll… do my best."

"You're good?" Even as she'd watched the ragged holes close up on his body, vanishing to leave only smooth skin behind, she couldn't help but ask. Castiel was still a shade too pale, wound sites still red and enflamed, even if the worst had passed.

"Yes. Some residual effects, but nothing strong enough to hinder me in battle."

"It was pretty bad, when you first woke up. I guess you probably don't even remember it, though."

There was very little to be remembered of his delirium. Mostly scattered glimpses and impressions of pain. Castiel was more aware of what had followed. It wasn't often he got to rest without having to worry about someone putting a blade in his back. The novelty wasn't lost on him, nor was the fact that he had trusted a demon with his safety in the midst of it all. It spoke worlds about how differently he viewed Meg now.

Still…

"There is one thing I do remember," Castiel said, eventually ending the long silence. "I remember someone gripping my hand and a voice telling me to hold on." His voice trailed off, becoming softer, and there was more gentleness as he looked down at her now than Meg had ever seen in him before. "I don't think I will ever forget that."

Castiel looked as though he'd experienced great revelation and, of its own mind, her hand reached up to smooth over the lapel of his coat. Dark eyes watched the tan material slide beneath her fingers as Meg considered several different remarks she could have replied with. All of them eventually fell through, and so she said nothing.

The moment was short-lived, but Castiel caught her hand before she could draw back too far. Something cool and solid pressed into her palm, and Meg looked down to see an angel blade there. Her eyes darted back up to his, confused.

"Take this," Castiel said.

"You're giving me your blade?"

He had others. Castiel knew though that it wasn't his being armed or not that gave her pause. He was giving her something sacred. A weapon that could kill him in a single blow, kill any one of his brothers and sisters. He was quite literally laying his life and the lives of his kin in the hands of a demon.

"You may need it."

Ion would have surely reported by now that a demon had saved the commander of the rebels. They had some fortune on their side, as the angel would require time to attain a new vessel after being expelled. That would afford Castiel a window to retrieve the _Nazad_ and hide them properly before a secondary attack could be mounted. More… he had to hope that Meg would be safe, and that she hadn't condemned her own fate by salvaging his.

Her dark eyes drank him in, keenly searching his. Too many questions hung between them still, but Meg overlooked them in favor of the present danger he faced. "If you do run into trouble..."

Castiel nodded, thumb grazing over her knuckles. He wasn't sure what compelled him to say it, but the quiet words spilled between them like a confession. "Be careful."

With a flutter of wings, he was gone, and Meg knew it then, without a doubt. Castiel had transformed her forever, and she would follow him until the day she died.

That border between them was slowly fading, until eventually there'd be no space left at all. Just an angel and a demon and each other.

It wasn't love. But maybe it would be.

* * *

_it's like a light of a new day_   
_it came from out of the blue_   
_breaking me out of the spell I was in_   
_making all of my wishes come true_

* * *

A white room.

A scarlet-haired woman sat behind a desk.

"Report," she said in a clipped voice.

Abaddon was a beast still bound by time at this point, of little threat to the present, but this was no Knight of Hell. Although, in some ways, she would prove to be so much worse. She wore a gray suit, hair tucked neatly into a bun at the back of her head.

Ion, a mere suggestion of shape and still without a proper shell, hovered at attention. A sound very dissimilar to speech rang obediently from his light, relaying what had been witnessed. " _Castiel was retrieved_."

"By his soldiers," the woman surmised.

" _No_ ," said Ion. " _It was… a demon_."

Cold displeasure overcame her otherwise neutral appearance. "Crowley?" She seemed annoyed to even speak the name. The King's interference had been expected, but the reality of it still left her with contempt.

The grace in front of her sang now with grave unease. " _Not Crowley. Another_."

The woman's chin jerked up. Imperial authority fanned out in a rush. "Describe it," she snapped.

" _An Old One, of the purebloods. She has served in Hell for nearly two thousand years_." Ion's words held a weight of foreboding. " _Azazel's daughter_."

The color drained from the woman's sharp features, replaced a moment later by wintry alarm. An Enochian curse was spat, echoing quietly in the neat office. Ion's grace shifted restlessly as he awaited further orders.

"He's been resisting me lately, what little I've done to persuade. I knew there must be a reason."

The air around her now was positively severe.

" _How would you have me respond_?" When there was no immediate instruction, Ion pressed. " _Naomi. Should I find and kill it?_ "

"Not yet. The situation has now become very delicate." Her eyes scanned the surface of the desk, weighing the developments with tight resignation. After a tense beat of silence, Naomi looked back to her inferior. Her tone was brisk. "Continue working for Raphael. Say nothing."

* * *

_it's my own desire_   
_it's my own remorse_   
_help me to decide_   
_help me make the most of freedom_   
_and of pleasure_   
_nothing ever lasts forever_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS
> 
> LATIN:
> 
> "A capite ad calcem." | From head to heel. (From head to toe.)
> 
> "Inter arma enim silent leges. Finis coronat opus." | In a time of war, the law falls silent. The end crowns the work.
> 
> "Daemon, ipsa subiecto voluntati meam. Amarantha, ligandum eos partier coram me. Ego postulo auxilium tuum." | The demon, let her be subject to the will of my call. Amarantha, bind together in front of me. I am in need of you.
> 
> "Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco. Omipotentis Dei potestatem invoco. Aborro te ut. Angelum omnium obsequendum. Domine expuet! Domine expuet! Deum adempiremus veritas!" | I invoke the power and authority of the Almighty God. I invoke the power and the authority of the Almighty God. The Earth deny you. This angel in Your service, Lord reveal him! Lord, reveal him! This day let him know thy Wrath!
> 
> ENOCHIAN:
> 
> "Amma aishh." | Cursed woman.
> 
> "Qaaon. Bagale nenni ol dasaari oiad ol oi iarri?" | Oh, Father. Why have you abandoned us to this fate?
> 
> "Adphaht." | Unspeakable / Indescribable.
> 
> "Vrgel!" | Purge of fire!
> 
> "Apachana. Noromi adgmach faboan." | Things made of dust. So much poison.
> 
> "Ollor bng ashh darbs. Oiad ashh darbs. Oiad hohorala oi baltoh." | A guardian must obey. He must obey. The law is just.
> 
> "Hoath." | Lover.
> 
> "Allar Nazad." | Spear of Binding.

**Author's Note:**

> I very much appreciate reviews and critique!


End file.
